The Private Journal of Dr John Watson
by electrickpurple
Summary: John decides to disclose some highly personal information concerning him and the eponymous Sherlock - meant for his eyes only. M-rated, Sherlock/John slash. NB: Complete! Sequel in progress.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Dear readers, hello! Here's a new one for you ;) Hope you've enjoyed the first series of 'Sherlock' as much as I have! I've always been a huge fan of Conan-Doyle's books, and the many TV/film adaptations thereof. But this new series is really exceptional, in my opinion. So, so well written, without massacring the original genius of the stories, as it could've done. As a result, I've been pretty infatuated with the whole thing. Including the choice of cast! _

_This fic started stampeding around my head after I recently watched the third episode again and started wondering: "What the hell's going to happen to John and Sherlock? What will Moriarty do next?" So, I've written my own little sequel, via John's PC. Enjoy! (N.B. Chapter updated 03/11/10)_

_Warning: scenes of a non-con nature._

_..._

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

I've got to do this. I've got to sit down and write. But even now, staring helplessly into the void of my computer screen and trying to put my thoughts in order, the words are reluctant to come – ashamed of what they will expose.  
Anything I write here is purely for my own benefit – which should be a helpful thought, but it isn't. These journal entries will never be seen; will _definitely _never be published for the internet-surfing public at large, unlike my blog. That should bring me comfort. But it doesn't. I can't seem to find the outlet that I need. And I probably won't, even after these unbearable thoughts and memories are consigned to this journal.

Thank God Sherlock's not home.

Yes, this journal concerns him too – quite unsurprisingly. But it concerns him in a way I that it would probably kill me to admit...most of all to _him_.

It all began about a fortnight ago – and as this is _my_ version of events, I've got to start with a bit of guesswork – filling in the gaps of the parts I wasn't around to see. Not that I'm very happy about that. Trust my damned luck – to come home from the surgery that Tuesday evening and find that I'd missed probably one of the most important exchanges that had ever taken place in 221b. Also one which turned out to be the spark for so many…incidents that followed. From the few facts that I managed to get from a reluctant Sherlock, and my own (pretty poor) skills of deduction, I've put together a vague account of what I think happened.

Sometime before I arrived home, Jim Moriarty had managed to wend his way inside 221b Baker Street. Bored, probably. So was Sherlock, otherwise he would have had countless reasons not to be in. Moriarty must have had a motive for 'popping round', but Sherlock either hasn't discovered it or is refusing to tell me. I wouldn't even try to hazard a guess. But it became clear to _dear old_ Jim, after quite a short length of time, that Sherlock wasn't going to rise to his bait. At least, not until he'd had time to assess the facts.  
Unfortunately for Sherlock, Moriarty is without a doubt the world's most dangerous psychopath. His thought processes don't match those of the majority of people's, and can switch drastically in a split-second. It goes without saying that he didn't take the refusal well.

At some point in their 'conversation', Moriarty decided that he wanted to rape Sherlock. It may or may not have been a carefully-calculated decision – but humiliation is one of Moriarty's favourite punishments.

There have always been rumours about Sherlock's sexuality – in particular (but not exclusively) coming from the people that know him best. It seems to be the the only topic that's ever caused him any kind of difficulty, and, weird as it seems to say it – _awkwardness_.  
At some point between claiming that Sherlock was homosexual and threatening to prove it, Moriarty decided to beat him senseless. Sherlock was grappled against a wall, bruised and bloody in several places, giving Moriarty the opportunity to start forcibly removing Sherlock's jacket and shirt. Every attempt he made to undress Sherlock was beaten off with as many punches and kicks as Sherlock could muster – by this time, according to him, he already had a potentially-fractured shoulder and multiple bruised ribs, which make his attempts to fight his corner all the more brave and…well, stupid and painful.  
But Moriarty was soon able to overpower Sherlock, despite his smaller height and stature. A powerful blow to Sherlock's left temple left him reeling – by which point, Moriarty was ready to carry out his disgusting threat.

From here on out, I can be a lot more certain. This was the exact moment that I arrived home, came upstairs and unlocked the door to the flat.

I remember seeing the look of contempt on Moriarty's face and finding it deeply satisfying.  
The feeling was short-lived.  
I'm not prepared to give a man like Jim Moriarty even the slightest chance to speak – let alone explain himself – and seeing Sherlock slumped over on the ground, in a spreading pool of his own blood, led me to immediate, and perhaps _drastic_, action.

I shot Moriarty in his right shoulder, just below his collar bone. The bullet probably passed straight through, but I haven't seen it anywhere in the flat since. Not a serious wound, as far as gunshots go; I knew it would only remove the immediate threat to Sherlock, and not much else.  
Moriarty shrunk back with the force of the shot, his sinister black eyes becoming demonic as he focused them on me and started to stagger towards me.  
This time, I shot him just above his left knee - not even the infamous Jim Moriarty could stay on both feet after such a blow. I watched him drop to the floor with grim triumph.

Pretty quickly after this second gunshot, four fully-armed police officers surged into the flat and began to detain Moriarty – handcuffing him looked like it took quite a considerable amount of effort. Amazingly, he was completely unarmed. I wouldn't want to begin to think about what could have happened if he had have been.  
We found out later that Mrs Hudson had heard the confrontation between Sherlock and Moriarty from upstairs, and was agonising over whether to phone the police or not - Sherlock can be crabby about that sort of thing. But hearing my two gunshots was the decider. It was sheer coincidence that a police car was on duty some five minutes away from Baker Street.  
Moriarty was dragged from the room, swearing bloody vengeance on us both. It wouldn't surprise me if it turns out he escaped within half an hour, but thankfully he hasn't bothered us since. Won't until the next time he's bored, I suppose.

The threat now over, my attention was instantly on Sherlock: as the doctor, and the friend. He was semi-conscious, his eyes rolling a little in his head, his body trembling slightly beyond his control. In the months I've known him, I can honestly say I've never seen Sherlock so much as twitch unless it was strictly necessary. The trembling was a shock to my system.  
I studied his wounds: bruising mostly, split skin at his temple and at the juncture between the right side of his chest and his right arm. I was worried that the shoulder might be fractured, but it was only swollen and bruised – like the rest of him. His blood loss seemed disproportionate to his injuries, but that's normally the case.  
He came to just as I was trying to fasten up his shirt again: it seemed somehow really undignified to leave him in that state.

"John. Moriarty, he..." Sherlock was almost fully lucid, but he couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't even look me in the eye. He seemed...disappointed? No, ashamed. It was difficult to accept. Still is. I didn't think that Sherlock was capable of shame.  
Very quickly, a picture began to form in my mind. It was the combination of Sherlock's discarded clothes, the wounds from his struggle with Moriarty, and the words that I had heard Moriarty shouting as I climbed the stairs earlier that finally made me realise. The words hadn't registered at the time; hadn't made sense until that moment:

'_C'mon, Sherlock, C'MON! Enough flirting, I want you to be MY FAG...'_

"He tried to rape you."  
The words seemed unreal, as if they weren't in my own language. I remember feeling as though someone else's mouth had said them.

Sherlock's head fell forward, the memories flooding back in a first, sickening wave. I wasn't surprised when he lapsed back into unconsciousness. Surprised: no. Terrified: yes.

I shouted for Mrs Hudson, who was waiting nervously in the corridor, uneasy about coming into the room until she was asked. She helped me carry Sherlock's motionless body up the stairs to his bedroom, where we put him carefully on the bed. I asked her if she could leave us then, knowing she wouldn't really want to, but insisting that I was fully capable of looking after Sherlock on my own.

"Honestly, you've been a great help, but I can handle it from here – go and get some rest, calm your nerves."

She was quiet and pale, but managed to nod weakly in agreement, remembering my medical training and admitting that this qualified me to look after Sherlock in her absence.

"It's not just that – I _need _to do it," I told her. I still don't understand why.

Once she'd gone, I looked at Sherlock, sprawled awkwardly on his bed, and felt a deep, swirling rush of emotion. It was awful: like someone had grabbed my inner organs in an iron vice.  
It seemed wrong, so wrong: that such an awful thing had happened to him; that I wasn't there to prevent it; that someone so _perverted_ had tried to rob him of something – something that should only ever be experienced ...well, with pleasure. With comfort. Even a man so anti-relationships as Sherlock had the right to that.  
I distracted myself from these thoughts by playing doctor: a role I can easily slip into. But each basic action, each usually simple task seemed to affect me in an intense way. Somehow, more intense than I could handle. I felt so many uncomfortable pangs of emotion as I removed Sherlock's shirt, removed his trousers, bathed his wounded shoulder and temple, applied small dressings to the dried wounds, and covered his bruised body with the soft bedcovers.  
Sherlock must've come round at some point while I was tending to him, but he didn't speak until I laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder. I'm still not sure why I did that, at the time I felt like I needed to. It seemed like an easy way of expressing something I couldn't have expressed in any other way. And still it wasn't enough for me, somehow.

"What are you thinking, John?" His speech was slightly slurred. It was painful to hear.  
He was asking me the question because he wanted to asses my state of mind. Not because he wanted my opinion on what had just happened. I should've known that he wouldn't want to remember it so soon, let alone discuss it with me, but I couldn't hold back for some reason.

"I'm thinking that what Moriarty did – _almost_ did – to you is disgraceful. Not because he hurt you - he would've done that anyway. And I'm not surprised by what he did, actually, when I really think about it. I think it's just a terrible _shame _that he did it - to _you._"

"What – to the man that is so impervious to passion and desire?" Sherlock droned, sounding almost amused. "You think now that I will never want to pursue any form of romantic relationship, where there may have been the likelihood before." He gave me a long look. "I thought you knew me better, John." I felt really embarrassed, but normally I wouldn't have expected to be.

"I know. I know your stance on the whole...thing. And I haven't got any problem with it. I know our views are different – and I'm not trying to put you down. But yes, I suppose I _did _think - that someday, someone would come along who would change your mind, convince you that a sociopath can still find – and accept – affection, from another person."  
Admitting this made me feel more self-conscious than I expected, and I shied away from meeting Sherlock's eye, studying my clenched fists idiotically.

"Go on, John."

"What?"

"You might as well say it. I won't begrudge you."

I silently cursed the fact that Sherlock found me so easy to read, and took a deep breath. A hot rush of blood quickly spread across my face and neck.

"I just think that you don't deserve to have something violently forced on you that should only ever be - well, pleasurable. _Wonderful_, really." My own cheesy sentimentality suddenly made me feel very uncomfortable.

"_Sex_, you mean."

I didn't expect Sherlock to even know the word. Ridiculous, really.  
I must've jumped like I'd been given a mild electric shock – I could sense Sherlock's amusement without his expression changing.

"Yep..." I nodded, suddenly feeling my conversational skills running dry. A heavy, awkward silence followed – for me, anyway – Sherlock didn't seem to notice it at all.

"John, what you did earlier - it was..."

"It's fine," I answered sharply. A little too sharply. I wanted to sound more like Sherlock: cold, calculating, not so wrapped up in...Hell, just _corniness_. I felt that I'd shared too much, laid too many of my personal feelings out in front of him. Although that shouldn't really have bothered me...it did.  
That same intense rush of feeling came over me again, and as much as I wanted to keep up the pretence that I was fine, the words left my mouth before I had the chance to think.  
"I hated seeing you there – I just couldn't stand it. I didn't know what was going on - but somehow, I_ knew _something was wrong – _really _wrong_. _It felt - I don't know - I felt like I almost could have..." My voice was shaking slightly; I suddenly felt very, very close to throwing up.

"If you'd done it, I wouldn't have resented it. You aren't completely vacant of powerful emotion, John. And that isn't always a bad thing." Sherlock had known – like he always does – just what I was about to say. He wanted to save me from putting my urge to kill Jim Moriarty into words.

"No, no I'm not...vacant," I agreed, feeling slightly confused.

"But you _are _a great man."

I stared at Sherlock, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't read anything from his expression. It couldn't be true: Sherlock would _never _pay me a heartfelt compliment, it isn't in his nature. So it couldn't have been real. But why say it? Just to appease me? To make me feel that because I saved his dignity - maybe his _life_ – the action was actually worthsomething in his closed-off, relentlessly logical mind? I still don't know. But I watched his eyes slowly closing, knowing that he was finally letting himself relax, and realised that there was only one thing I could do. Only one thing I wanted to do, and _had _to do.

I put my hands carefully on his shoulders, leaned over him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. A brief kiss, not lingering – I didn't want to linger. But I felt a genuine warmth for Sherlock after he'd said that to me, that I had to express to him, even though I couldn't express it in words. Didn't want to give him an opportunity to talk back, anyway.  
But I regretted it almost as soon as I'd done it. '_Why, John, you idiot? Do you want him to think that you're totally ridiculous, mark you down forever as a weak, sentimental idiot?'  
_I was struck dumb, as I pulled away slowly and carefully to see that Sherlock's eyes were open, staring so deeply into mine that it was unbearable. I couldn't face the thought that he could've read something into the action. I wanted to disappear – to reverse time, ideally – but something kept me frozen in position, locked on Sherlock's eyes so that it would've been impossible to look away.

Something like falling. That's what I remember. Like the feeling when you stand too close to the edge of a cliff and know that your own legs could easily carry you over the edge.  
Somehow, in seconds that felt like hours, mine and Sherlock's lips met. It wasn't the kiss of friends, that was obvious from the off, and the thought horrified me. But his lips were _so soft_; so soft that the blood seemed to leave every other part of my body and rush to that one place where we'd made contact. It seemed extraordinary, at the time: as though, in finding that Sherlock had such soft, full lips, lips that had never been kissed in such a way by any other human being, I had discovered some great, valuable secret.  
I pulled away very quickly – once these ridiculous, and yet somehow _amazing_ thoughts had been pushed out of my head by shock. I didn't dare look into Sherlock's eyes at all; I couldn't bear to see the disgusted expression on his face. I couldn't believe what I'd _done. _I felt like such a fool – and more to the point, I felt like a sham. After all, I'm not gay. I've never even had the slightest hint of _that _kind of feeling for another man. Clearly, Sherlock was in a vulnerable state, and I didn't want him to think that I'd preyed on his vulnerability for my own selfish reasons.  
But I wasn't given time to think this over.  
I felt the bedcovers shifting beneath me, and a soft rush of air against my face that could only have been Sherlock breathing, as he moved his face closer to mine all over again. It still astounds me that he made this move, and it will probably take years to discover just why he did. But his lips found their way to mine again, and this time, I might as well have plunged straight over that cliff. There was no way I was coming back up.

...Maybe he was curious.

We were kissing again. The thought of it still makes my stomach lurch – but not with disgust. I can't lie to myself; it was quite wonderful, that second kiss. Deep.  
This time, it wasn't so much a simple meeting of mouths. It was a _real _kiss, the kiss that all kisses should be. Neither of us made any other sound, and the room was almost disturbingly quiet. All I could hear were the damp, warm sounds of our lips moving together. It filled my head and surged like blood in my ears. My heart thundered.  
I couldn't be sure what Sherlock was thinking or feeling, but as we continued, his uninjured arm found its way around my neck, and I moved one hand behind his head, massaging his scalp with my thumb as my fingers worked their way into his hair...

Even with the memory of those moments, it's easy for me to get carried away. It all happened so seamlessly, that while we were in the middle of the kiss I didn't expect it to end. Unfortunately – and yes, I admit I was disappointed – it was over far too soon. Sherlock moved away from me, as rightly he should have, his lips parting from mine so very gently, brushing slowly against my chin. He laid his head once more against the pillow, working his body from underneath mine slightly.  
I felt ready to take offence, but once the initial disappointment had passed, I realised that I had no need to. Sherlock was tired, and badly hurt; I'd forgotten that. The medical man's voice of reason inside me reminded me that he needed rest, and that I should let him have it.  
My stomach felt heavy when I saw the small smile on his kiss-reddened lips as he drifted off to sleep.

Even after everything that happened, and in spite of my disbelief and embarrassment, I knew that I couldn't allow Sherlock to sleep unattended that night – not with Moriarty's threats so fresh in both our minds. I settled myself in the armchair at the foot of his bed, and fell asleep within the hour.  
Sherlock told me later that he'd barely slept at all; that he tossed and turned, his memories of Moriarty plaguing his mind. But he'd feigned sleep so that I wouldn't be worried about him. He told me: if I hadn't been in the room, he would've been up and pacing the floorboards raw. I'm glad I stayed.

I slept pretty badly too that night – but not because of what had happened...more in spite of it. To tell the truth, that armchair was god-damned uncomfortable.  
At least my uneasy night meant that I woke quite a bit earlier than usual the next morning – even before Sherlock for a change. I took the opportunity, before he could wake up and make any argument, to sneak out and make him breakfast in bed.  
Look...I know how it sounds. But the kiss had no effect over this decision. I wanted to do something kind for him.  
Well...OK, I did kind of hope that bringing him breakfast would give Sherlock an excuse to say anything negative about how he felt about the kiss. If he did – well, I was ready with a variety of possible excuses for my behaviour. I made the list in my head while I was boiling the kettle.

...I might as well be truthful. This is a journal, after all.  
Taking that tray up to Sherlock's room was probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Yes, _including _Afghanistan.  
I was just _scared_ – I didn't know what to expect. How could I? Normally, if I have feelings for someone – a _woman_ – I go about it in the way that everyone probably does. A few quirky chat-up lines, buy her a drink, make a joke about my stupid haircut...It's easy enough.  
Problem is: this time, I wasn't even sure of my _own _feelings, let alone his. I suppose I hoped he wouldn't say anything, that we could both just breeze past it as though it had never happened.  
Otherwise, I hoped he would at least go easy on me. I didn't want to have to justify myself to him – probably wouldn't be able to justify myself to his high standards anyway.

I needn't have worried. In fact, my worries seemed totally pointless when I took the tray into Sherlock's room. The early morning light through the windows was truly beautiful, as I slipped through the doorway and saw him sat up in bed with the covers bunched up around his lap. He'd kept the bandages on, but had made some effort to comb his bedraggled hair from his face, and had retrieved his silk dressing-gown and draped it round his shoulders. He reached for the tray with a slightly mystified smile, and there was no mistaking the gesture: his long, nimble fingers brushed against mine as he took it from me.

From here on, I let the day pass in its own way – obliging Sherlock's orders to fingerprint the flat, clean up the bloodstains and get samples _et cetera, _so that Lestrade and his lot wouldn't have an excuse for an impromptu search. I even gave him some space while he talked through improved methods of security with Mrs Hudson, by going out for a brisk walk which I was relieved to be able to take. The crisp, fresh air really cleared my head, and it wasn't till I was halfway around the block that I realised just how stifling 221b had become in the past twelve hours.  
I arrived back at the flat in the early evening, feeling that I'd indulged Sherlock's demands quite enough, and determined to talk about what had happened. I hated the idea, but it had to be done.  
I found him seated in his usual armchair, dressed in an outfit not too different from what he was wearing the night before. He'd managed to conceal most of the bruising, apart from his head wound, which he'd removed the bandage from – out of vanity, most likely. The cut looked sore and livid-red, but the bleeding had stopped. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth at the sight of it.  
Coming into the room, I made it quite plain that I wanted to talk about last night – meaning Moriarty's attack, that is. Sherlock's greeting was cut short.

"I can't talk about that, John. I want to, believe me, and I _will, soon, _but I find myself somehow...incapable, at the moment."

"_Unwilling_, you mean." I hadn't wanted to sound irritated, but I was. If he wouldn't talk about this, he probably wouldn't want to talk about..._other _things.

"Well, that's a slight exaggeration. I _am _willing. Just _not yet._"

"In that case...do you – do you want to talk about what happened between _us, _instead?"

The question hung awfully in the air. I turned my back to Sherlock, because I couldn't watch his reaction. I heard him sigh, and that was enough to crush me.

"That...would be even harder," he eventually replied, in a voice that was worryingly gentle.

I turned slowly to face him, seeing that he had stood up from the armchair, and had his arms folded around his waist – protectively? The skin covering his high, alabaster cheekbones was flushed, and his hawk-like eyes were unfocused. I knew that he wouldn't say anything more, and that felt like my cue to say all the things that had been welling up inside me since our kiss. This would be my only chance, and I _had _to get it right.

"I don't want to give you a false impression, Sherlock. And I know that you'll never want to be in a relationship, that you're 'married to your work'." Sherlock nodded curtly at this, but didn't meet my eye. "Honestly, I never expected anything to _happen _between us. I – just – wanted to show you – how much you mean – to me – and – then..."I couldn't finish the sentence. It was awful to stand through the silence that followed, knowing that I'd failed miserably at convincing Sherlock that the kiss meant nothing to me.

The look on his face – I'll never forget it. He looked so troubled, as if I'd just laid the weight of the world on him.

"You can say what you want to say, Sherlock – it doesn't matter."

Even though it _did _matter. And in spite of myself, I moved closer to Sherlock, raised my hands to him and began to stroke his upper arms, which were tense by his sides. It was just a friendly gesture - or so I told myself, whilst trying to ignore the definition of his muscles. I looked up at him – _desperately, _I'm ashamed to say. Needing him to look at me and talk to me, to acknowledge that I exist. To do _anything. _It really didn't matter.  
Sherlock sighed again, slowly. I felt the warm air beat against my face, and breathed in sharply. Then his eyes met mine, and their focus was so _intense, _so sharp, that I felt consumed whole.

I must have been drowning. Because it felt like nothing I'd ever experienced before – like the oxygen was being starved from my lungs and my feet were losing hold of the ground.  
Sherlock's warm, wet mouth was on mine again, lips open and forcing mine apart. I felt his tongue pressing into mine, and _god _it was such a sensation. All my other senses were worthless – touch was all I wanted, all I needed, all I craved. He was so insistent – but so was I. Our actions were so fraught; it's a wonder that we managed to stay upright. I gripped him tightly by the back of his head, pulling him as close as physically possible, and though I can't quite be sure where Sherlock's hands were, his grip was so self-assured, so decisive. Our mouths were grinding into each other with an amazing affinity, the movements were so synchronised, and Sherlock – he tasted...it was such a distinctive taste. Somehow, he tastes how he _looks,_ how he thinks, how he acts. It was incredible.  
It was unavoidable, but I was ashamed of my semi-erection when it started to press out from my trousers. It seemed to ruin the moment. I know, that sounds ridiculous. But even now, I feel the same. I tried so hard to make sure Sherlock didn't feel it; I was so sure it would ruin things.  
But I couldn't really prevent it. When my hardness brushed against Sherlock's thigh, ending the kiss, he wasn't offended by it, as I thought he would've been. He just smiled. Smiled, and left the room.  
Maybe he was trying to save me the embarrassment. Maybe he was playing hard to get.  
I actually think it was something a lot more innocent: a lot more _Sherlock_ – he wasn't ready for _that_ to happen yet. But I hope that, someday, just like discussing the Moriarty attack, he _will be._

Well – that's it. That's the story.  
I was right, I hardly feel any better.  
It's now been a few weeks since these events took place, and neither of us have spoken about them since. I suppose I should be happy with that: that we haven't tried to label what happened, or make excuses for it.  
But I had to write it all down. I've been mulling it all over so much that I was starting to believe that I'd go mad with it all.  
Sherlock and I are still a team. Still friends. Still everything else we were before. But now, for some unexplainable reason, some of our feelings towards each other can't be expressed with words. I know for me at least, it's because I'm scared to. Luckily, we've found other ways to – communicate.

Oh, that's Sherlock coming in now. Looks like I'll have to sign off here.  
...He looks _very_ tired. Might suggest an early night…for both of us.

Faithfully,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Here's Chapter Two then! It's been great to write up two complete chapters in such a short time: luckily, I had both parts of this planned out before I started writing, which helped a lot. More than that, I think I've just got a case of 'Sherlock' fever! This one's a little bit more explicit than the last – I'm sure you won't mind...  
I could happily write about twenty more of these! We'll see if I get any more ideas ;P_

Oh, and thanks so much to everyone for all the views/favourites/reviews already! All are greatly appreciated. (N.B. Chapter updated 04.11.10)

_..._

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

Once was enough. Well, once _should've _been enough. But here I am again, in front of the laptop – even worse for wear than last time, if that's possible. Not because of anything life-threatening or even potentially dangerous that's happened recently, mind. Just because my head feels stuffed with woolly rubbish and I can't think straight.  
Hmm...maybe the journal was a bad idea. Maybe I should just sit here and slam my head into the keyboard instead. Potential concussion, risk of amnesia, _definite _loss of mental faculties for at least thirty seconds. The idea definitely appeals.

There won't be anything in this entry that I couldn't risk being seen – this time, the person involved is fully aware of my opinions and feelings. We've spoken about it – quite a few times, in fact. So, really, I shouldn't feel the need to write anything down at all. Or so you would think. Somehow, though, I still want to share my experiences and inner thoughts with someone (or in this case, some_thing_) totally impartial: someone who won't talk back, or interrupt, or start playing abrasive violin. Sherlock probably wishes he still had his skull to discuss it with; thankfully, I'm not quite as eccentric in my choice of sounding board.

Flicking back to my last entry, I might as well just carry on from where I left off. I'm going to talk about mine and Sherlock's fight (or at least a pathetic excuse for one), and everything that followed as a result. Don't know if it will help me. Probably not. But it's either this, or having a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson and having to listen to her talk about her blasted hip for 2 hours. God, I hate days off.

So – yeah, as I'd left it, Sherlock had just come in from a visit to Scotland Yard, looking pretty worn out. I'm used to seeing him like this, and it usually means good things for him: the most likely being that he has another case to obsess over.

"You look knackered, mate." I don't usually keep my thoughts to myself.  
I made sure that my laptop was switched off, so that he wouldn't have the chance to see this journal. By the time he acknowledged that I was even in the room, I'd made a show of picking up the newspaper and pretending to read it.  
"What is it this time, then?"

Sherlock flapped one hand idly, and started talking in fragmented sentences, as he usually does when his mind's working overtime, "Oh, multiple suspected murders in Soho. Killer only identifiable by a certain rare kind of poppy that he leaves on the bodies. Quite a wonderful case, really, but..."Giving up on his explanation, he gave a deep, theatrical sigh and flopped into the nearest armchair.

"Hmm." I was noncommittal, not taking my eyes from the newspaper. "Suppose we'll be pretty busy for the next few days at least, then."

Sherlock's head was resting on his chest, but I noticed his eyes snapping upwards to study me, from the blurred corner of my vision.

"Obviously," he answered, drawing out the word a little, which betrayed his curiosity at what I'd said. Not that I'd said anything particularly unusual. But he must have suspected something in my tone of voice. "I can't see how that would be a problem for you though, John, as pretending to read the newspaper must be the most frightfully _boring _pastime."

I folded the paper in half, looking over at Sherlock with a wry smile. "Now, Sherlock, why would I possibly pretend to read the newspaper?" I knew he wouldn't believe my bluff, but hoped he would take it with a sense of humour. Unfortunately, he was in _one of those moods._

"Well, from the slight stiffness in both of your index fingers, the flashing standby button on your laptop, and the fact that you have the collar of your shirt turned up – which you always tend to do when you're agitated about something – I would suggest that you have just been writing or accessing a highly personal document on your PC; something that you wouldn't want me to read, even just the odd word accidentally. You pretended to read the paper in the hope that I might perhaps be distracted by the fact that our photograph is on the front page, and ask you about that article instead of what you were doing when I walked into the room."  
I swallowed a large lump in my throat, and smiled grimly. I didn't need to say anything. Sherlock already knew he was right.  
"I won't ask what the document was. It's none of my business, clearly. But then I am also inclined to wonder why you didn't shut off the laptop as soon as you heard me unlock the door downstairs, instead of waiting until I was already making my way into the room. That suggests to me that, whilst you really don't want me to see it, you are hoping that I will discover its themes or content in some other way, and save you the trouble of showing it to me."

I sighed, and nodded slowly. There's no point being evasive with Sherlock.  
I realised then that he was giving me the opportunity to say what was in the document, without blatantly admitting that that was what I had been writing about. Much as the idea appealed to me, I couldn't help but think he would soon regret giving me the opportunity. He was right, though. I _did _want him to know what I'd written, deep down. I can be pretty belligerent, when it comes to letting people know how I feel. Being subtle isn't my forte.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes...?" Again, that slow drawl. I could tell he was almost enjoying this.

"I – I sort of want to ask you about – about where things are going, between us." I cringed as soon as the words had left my mouth. Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and brought his hands to his lips. "It's a bloody horrible question, I know. But I kind of feel that I need to know where I – I _stand_. You've given me no clues, at all. It's driving me a little bit mad, actually."

Sherlock stood, so I did too. We looked at each other from opposite sides of the room, Sherlock standing with his shoulders pulled back slightly and his head casually tilted, me standing slightly hunched like some cave-dweller, worried about how he might react. That _fight or flight _feeling started to kick in.

"John – I really can't talk about that right now. Especially with this new case on – though not because of that – but it definitely is a contributing factor. I really don't think I can spare any room in my _head _for..."

I should have expected what I was hearing, but it still stung like a bitch. Stung even more, because it was the sort of answer he gave to Mrs Hudson when she asked him what kind of biscuits he wanted buying in, or what time he wanted her to call the plumber round. I felt uncontrollable anger rising inside me, like some sort of virus. More than my own embarrassment and vulnerability, I was frightened by my overwhelming urge to inflict some damage on Sherlock. The volume of my own voice shocked me when it finally burst from my dry throat.

"DAMN YOU, SHERLOCK!" I couldn't mask the crack in my voice, as I turned around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I rushed off to my bedroom, slamming that door in the same juvenile way, and laid on my bed, turning by back to the door in case Mrs Hudson decided to check in on me and saw the look of pure misery on my face.

That was her knocking, about half an hour later. I rolled my eyes, and folded my arms tightly. Truth was, the anger I felt was gone pretty much as soon as it had surfaced. At that moment, all I felt was stupid. I'd gotten so wrapped up in _this _bloody journal that I'd forgotten who I was dealing with, and _what _I was dealing with. To make myself clear: the _who _being Sherlock Holmes and the _what _being a potential romantic relationship that I still wasn't really sure that I wanted to commit myself to. When I first thought about asking the question, I hadn't cared very much about the answer. But hearing those words from Sherlock's lips, knowing that he was probably analysing every word I'd said, affected me in the strangeest way. I was considering packing my bags, staying in a local B&B for a couple of nights – until my bedroom door creaked open.

It wasn't Mrs Hudson.  
It was Sherlock. I watched him slope into the room, close the door gently behind him and rest his back against it, tilting his chin skyward. His eyes were downcast; he had a grave frown on his face and wouldn't look at me.  
I turned away from him, lying down on the bed again.

"Fuck off, would you? I really don't want to talk to you." My voice was slightly muffled by my upturned shirt collar.

I heard a soft rustle of fabric, felt a slight bump in the mattress as Sherlock sat down on the bed behind me, and heard that familiar sigh from his nostrils.

"You don't have to," he said, in a voice that was so soft it chilled me right through.

Then I felt his hand on my waist, squeezing slightly. The touch was hesitant, lacking his usual confidence. But his fingers were warm, and I felt the touch seeping into my skin, sending a small shudder through me. I couldn't keep up the show of anger, after that. Just the contact of his fingertips seemed to say so much. All my inhibitions and irrational fears just melted away.  
Before I could stop myself, tears were pricking my eyes. My shoulders started to hitch as small, silent sobs moved through me. I covered my face with my arm, ashamed of showing weakness – especially in front of Sherlock. It felt so _strange_: I hadn't cried for months, not since coming back to England after the war, when flashbacks and nightmares had haunted me. When Icried _those _times, though, it was from frustration, from fear and paranoia. I worried that my life would never have that extreme sense of danger and purpose ever again, that I would be so _bored_, and more importantly: that I'd never feel important in quite the same way ever again. Now, I was feeling – well, just feeling _scared, _and stupid. I won't deny: it was a relief to let that sort of emotion out - like letting blood from an infected wound.

"It's like you don't _feel _anything, sometimes," I told Sherlock eventually, my voice slightly thick with emotion. I don't know why I said it – wasn't even sure that that was how I felt until the words had already left me.

"Get up, John," Sherlock demanded, his voice flat. "I want you to look at me."

I sat up, matching his posture almost identically, and watching him sheepishly from the corner of my eye. He was still frowning and the bridge of his nose was wrinkled; I wondered if he would suggest that I should leave.  
He turned to face me, lifted his hands and gripped me tightly by both shoulders. I had no choice, then – I was forced look fully at him, but I felt slightly uncomfortable under his intense gaze. His eyes were fixed on me, without blinking, in a way that made me feel a bit light-headed.

"_I do feel, John,_" he said, dragging out each word, his voice low but insistent. He raised his eyebrows, and peered into me even more, as if checking that I agreed with him. I couldn't really do anything else.

Then I lunged forward and pressed my mouth against his, needily, desperately, and I couldn't stop a soft moan coming from me as I did. His cheeks felt strangely dry against my damp ones, and I wondered if it was an unpleasant feeling for him; it definitely wasn't for me. Then again, I was enjoying lots of other sensations that outweighed that one. The sensation of Sherlock's tongue against mine, mainly. I forced his lips apart with one of my less nervous kisses and held his tongue as it came out instinctively, enjoying the unmistakeable taste of him all over again.  
It felt good to know that I had _earned_ this pleasure: that Sherlock owed it to me. I was almost sure that he was indulging every move that I made, trying to please me, and also trying to prove me wrong: to prove that he had _plenty_ of feelings, many that he was more than willing to share with me. I was more than happy to let him.  
One of my hands found the back of his neck, which was hot and felt slightly clammy beneath my fingers. This made it easier for me to pull him closer, making it a little difficult for him to stop for air between kisses. With my other hand, I started to rub his knee and outer thigh: a thigh that was firm and muscular from plenty of sprinting across rooftops, I assumed.  
Sherlock's hands were quite busy too; they worried over my back, my shoulders and hips, struggling to maintain contact anywhere, as if he wasn't sure where to anchor his grip. His fingers stroked my lower back, hovering very close to my arse, and I let out a strangled gasp at the lewd images that started to blitz my thoughts as a result.  
Sherlock broke away from me when he heard it, raising one eyebrow. The rest of his face was free from expression, but his mouth was raw and his breath left him in short, swift bursts.

I took the opportunity here to do something a bit risky, maybe a bit rash. I had a pretty good idea where I wanted to go with this now – but the problem was that Sherlock was still a closed book. I had no idea _how _he would react, and I started to think he might not know whatto do. He'd never been very talkative about his level of knowledge in – _that_ subject area, before.  
Seizing my chance without enough sensible thought, I put my hands on either side of Sherlock's chest and pressed him gently down onto the bed. He didn't protest, didn't look surprised at all. His face stayed pretty unreadable. Once he was on his back, with me above him, my knees either side of his hips, I took his wrists in my hands and raised his arms above his head, basically pinning him in position. Not because I was worried that he might reject me, or because I wanted him at my mercy, but because he'd seemed so unsure about where to put his hands earlier; I wanted him to know that it didn't matter that much to me.  
Oddly enough, he just let me do it. I looked at him for a few seconds, trying to read any signs of discomfort from him. But there weren't any.  
I brought my face towards him and kissed him – slowly, this time, deliberately. He was responding in his usual way, confident, but slightly passive, as if he wouldn't begrudge me if I got cold feet and decided to put an end to the whole thing. But now, because his movements were so restricted, I was getting some pretty delicious friction off of him: he was grinding his hips against mine, every time he switched the angle of his kiss. I felt myself getting hot and flustered, knowing that it wouldn't be long before my – _appreciation_ of his movements started to show. But it this time, Sherlock looked like he was going to beat me to it. Only the smallest break in our kissing told me that he'd noticed at all, but it was pretty definite that he was starting to get a hard-on. The sensation was almost as subdued as he was, not the usual, firm 'stand to attention' that I was used to with my own body-part. I wondered if he was trying to conceal it from me, like I'd tried to all those nights ago. But I wanted him to know that, tonight, there was no need to conceal _anything._

With a cool determination that surprised even me, I reached down between us, unzipped Sherlock's fly, and fetched his semi-hard cock from the rent in his trousers. Then I started to pump it gently with a half-closed fist. I could have laughed at how surreal it all was, but somehow, I didn't feel like laughing. Not one bit.  
I wasn't sure how Sherlock would take it; whether he would welcome it, or enjoy it at all. The deep moan that rose from the back of his throat was so unexpected that I couldn't believe I'd heard it, but I saw the bleary look on Sherlock's face and the insides of my thighs started to ache; my heart moved up several notches, coming to rest somewhere in my windpipe.  
I felt a strange kind of success at seeing Sherlock affected in this way; with a smile, I bent my head to him and covered his neck with slow, persistent kisses, keeping up the steady friction of my hand.  
Looking up at him to see how he was coping, I was a bit miffed to him smiling. Not with pleasure – but as if I was doing something extremely funny. Apart from the sheen of sweat across his forehead, it was impossible to tell that I was doing anything even slightly kinky to him. I slowed my hand, hoping to get his attention.

"Are you enjoying this, Sherlock?" My tone was careful, but my voice was quite hoarse.

The smile was wiped from his face straight away. His eyes moved groggily to mine, and he cleared his throat softly.

"Why do you ask?" His voice was as calm and monotone as ever, which I was almost impressed by, considering what I was doing to him.

I felt stupid and vulnerable all over again, but I was determined not to let him think that I was. After all, if he wasn't as into this as I was, I wasn't going to let him think that it would bother me at all. I let myself smile a small smile as I replied, putting on a bit of a show of bravado.

"Well, I don't know – I just – well, I didn't think you were really capable of...this. This sort of enjoyment."

I was surprised when Sherlock didn't look offended by the comment at all. He had every right to, but he'd probably sensed how insecure I was and wanted to address that instead.

In a flat voice, he answered, "I am capable of just the right amount of _any _emotion – as appropriate to the particular situation. Including...'enjoyment.'"

The reply was so typical of Sherlock, and delivered so bluntly, that I couldn't help but believe him completely. I started to stroke him again, my enthusiasm renewed. And I felt like his kisses from then on were even more insistent. Maybe just because he was enjoying himself so much...

I eventually started to increase pace, as time slipped by in its humid blur. Sherlock's prick was fully hard by this point, and my movements were made easier by the coating of precum that was spilling from the tip. He was disguising his pleasure a lot less carefully now; his moans were more frequent, and his hips were jerking slightly beneath me. It was strangely satisfying to see him like this – even though I feel petty admitting that. It felt like I finally had a way to prove my usefulness against Sherlock's incredible genius; being able to appreciate pleasure and desire, I could actually teach _him _something, show him things he had never had the chance to witness first-hand (so to speak).  
When I'd settled into beating out a steady rhythm on him, I could sense all the muscles in his body relaxing. His head dropped back against the bedcovers, as he started to get used to all the new sensations I was giving him. He gasped a little for air, but apart from that, he could have been enjoying a nice sunny stroll in the park.  
Eventually, a few strained words left his mouth that took me slightly off-guard.

"Oh...Oh, _John _that feels so..."

"- Good?" I suggested, humour in my voice. My face was close to his; I was enjoying watching his changing expressions.

"Mm. Good. Yes. Very good," he panted, gripping the bed sheets tightly in his fists – which were still raised above his head.

I took this as a cue to switch the angle of my wrist, and to speed up the rhythm even more. Sherlock was even more enthusiastic, as I thought he would be. But after a while, he started to act kind of...strange.  
The longer I continued, the more he seemed to be feeling the same tension that I noticed much earlier on. He was even biting down on the skin of the back of his hand at one point, his eyes closed, as if he was trying to keep as silent and controlled as possible. I wondered if he was starting to struggle with the waves of emotion that I was bringing out in him. It was odd to see him like this. Sort of thrilling.  
I wondered if he would want to see this through to the end, seeing how uncomfortable he seemed to be - so I slowed down the pace of my wrist movements, and leant closer to him, trying to make my voice sound as gentle as I could.

"Do you want me to make you come?" I asked him.

Bizarre, I know. Even more so for me, because I've never had to ask anyone – let alone a man – that question before. It's sort of a given, right?  
But I was pretty sure that Sherlock needed reassuring that I wouldn't force him into anything he wasn't comfortable with.  
He didn't say anything. Just let out a small sigh and tilted his head back towards the bedcovers again. Rightly or wrongly, I took this as permission.  
To be honest, I was quite keen to see this through to its end. After all the mind games and childish angst, it would be a relief for me to reach a point where I could be sure once and for all of where our relationship stood. At this moment, I didn't really care about any of the other 'what ifs', like what would happen _after _all this_. _Simpler times.  
I was quite sure of what Sherlock wanted now, so I started a feverish pace with my wrist, grabbing at any free parts of his body I could reach to try and keep balance. Sherlock had one hand still tangled in the bed sheets, while his other gripped my arm tightly – so tightly that the pain almost put me off my stride. His eyes were squeezed shut; I thought he might snap at any moment, and wouldn't be able to go through with it because of his sociopathic nature, and not because of inexperience on either of our parts.  
But as soon as these thoughts had entered my head, it was all over, and Sherlock was coming swift and hot into my palm. My God, but it was weird. Wonderfully weird. He hardly made a sound; I muffled the little noise he did make by covering his mouth with mine, seizing him in one last, passionate kiss.  
Releasing him carefully, I laid beside him on the bed (with some difficulty, it only being a single). I watched Sherlock soundlessly, waiting for him to open his eyes. When he did, it was as if he had just woken up from a long hibernation: his vision was strangely clear, and he looked sort of bemused. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of the hand he had been biting – it still carried pink tooth marks.  
Even though his attention seemed to be fixed on the ceiling, I decided to break the silence.

"Was that...good?" I asked awkwardly, trying not to look as if I cared.

Sherlock's eyes moved to me, and he quirked an eyebrow as if to say, _'"Was that good for you?" Bit of a cliché, John.'  
_What he actually_ did _say was, "_Very _good." A bright smile spread across his face that made breath catch a little. He turned to face the ceiling again, folding his hands behind his head. "I think I may now be able to solve the case. Thanks to you in fact."

I laughed. Thought he was joking. "Who knew that sex was good for crime-solving?" I answered back, shaking my head.

Turns out he wasn't joking. Just two days later: case closed. I could have been insulted: that his thoughts weren't totally focused on me during those moments, and that, instead of thinking about the usual in that kind of situation, Sherlock was actually thinking about a psychotic, poppy-collecting killer and his methods.  
He tried reassuring me later by saying that his mind was _just _as fixated on both. He seems to have a talent for it that he didn't know he had – multitasking. 'Synchronising my hard-drive', he calls it. It seemed that sex was actually just the thing Sherlock needed to get his thoughts together. I decided to keep that in mind for future cases.  
I've been questioning myself over and over: about what might happen next for us, how we will be able to define the relationship we share. Even though I don't know if it can ever really last...I've been enjoying finding out.

It seemed like Sherlock was pretty pleased with himself about having potentially solved the case, laid there next to me on my bed, looking slightly messed-up and manhandled. I decided to go and clean up, realising that there would be no reaching him, now, until he had been to Scotland Yard and successfully undermined Lestrade enough to prove that he deserves to be called the police's most valuable asset.  
Smiling to myself, I started to turn away, swinging my legs off the bed. I was buttoning up my shirt, which Sherlock had managed to crease and crumple a bit – when I was stopped by a hand on the small of my back.  
I looked over my shoulder, to see that Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, his smile still there, but his eyes looking almost...I don't know. The best way I can describe it is – _wicked. _

"Your turn, Doctor." He said, grabbing me roughly by the waist.

Yours, Faithfully,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Not much to say except...thanks so much for your support, and enjoy! Oh, and I have at least two more chapters in planning, just to keep you hanging on the edge of the Sherlock cliff! (N.B. Chapter edited 19.11.10)_

_**...**_

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

Feel like I should apologise for how quickly I ended my last entry. Believe me, I wasn't too happy about having to cut _that_ short. Bloody typical – for Sherlock to text me, just as I'm remembering his hands around my cock. Turns out he wanted me to get a taxi straightaway to Leicester Square. Something to do with a tampered-with murder scene, and a body with unusual blood coagulation. I won't go into the details. It didn't lead to a very interesting case, as they go. In fact, after the Poppy Killer, there hasn't been anything interesting for weeks – by Sherlock's standards, at least.

Back to the bedroom, anyway. I didn't expect Sherlock to reciprocate. He's not usually the reciprocating type. In this, and so many other things, I was quick to underestimate him. It was surprising to discover just how knowledgeable he actually was.  
I could tell it was his first time – _hands o n, _so to speak – but he seemed to have a great intuition for knowing just what my body liked and what it didn't. He didn't even have to take his eyes from my face, or his lips from mine, to know which angle of the wrist I preferred and at what speed I wanted his movements. At one point, where he had slowed the thrusts of his wrist so much that I thought he would stop, he rasped his thumb over the tip of my penis in such a slow, deliberate way that I could actually _feel _my toes curling.  
His hands were amazingly dextrous. I'd seen those long, tapered fingers doing mundane, everyday things, and never thought about the kind of pleasure they could give. Why would I?  
But at that moment, it seemed that they only really had one purpose.  
It wasn't long before it all got a little too much for me – I was a bit disappointed that I didn't have the stamina. I grabbed his shoulders, threw my head back and almost hollered his name as he drew my orgasm out of me. The small ripple of laughter that he made as I did was the single biggest turn-on I've ever known.

Unluckily for me, this was the beginning of a pretty unbearable dry spell. In sex and in suitable cases. Sherlock had nothing to do, and so he didn't have any particular desire to _do _me.  
I obviously wasn't going to make an issue out of this. I was trying my hardest to ignore my body's selfish needs: the way it liked to remind me of how felt when Sherlock touched me at unexpected (and usually unfortunate) moments. Not to mention that I was still struggling to come to terms with the true nature of my feelings for him. The less contact of _that_ kind that we had with each other, the less tempted I was to over-analyse everything we said and did to each other. More to the point, I was still completely clueless about how _Sherlock_ felt about it all. If he wasn't talking about it, at least I didn't have to face up to his ruthless opinions on the subject.  
The closest I can come to describing my feelings during that time is this: it was very similar to the way you feel when you have a crush on the most popular person in your class at school. You're sure it's never going to happen, mainly because it seems pretty obvious that that person would _never_ go there and also because you feel like such a pathetic loser in comparison.  
So several weeks passed with no cases, and definitely no sex. And then something new came along.

I'd been waiting in the flat, on my own, for ten hours. Waiting for Sherlock. What else did I have to wait for?  
It wasn't the first time I'd been put in this situation by him, and I'm sure it won't be the last, but this didn't stop me getting really, really fucking fed up with waiting. I almost wished that Sherlock had taken me with him that morning, even though he'd left without much hope for the case, and was sure that my medical skills wouldn't be needed. I don't think it would have bothered me usually, except that for some reason that day seemed to drag so _slowly_. So slowly that sitting still made my body itch all over. I started getting annoyed as the hours straggled on, and the fact that Sherlock hadn't texted me all day irritated me more than it ever had before – as though knowing where he was, or what he was doing, would miraculously get rid of my boredom.

When Sherlock finally came home, he edged into the living room, looking lost in thought and sort of...flustered.

"Hello...John..." His tone of voice was odd, and he was looking at me from the side of his vision. I only realised later that it wasn't shyness, but the closest Sherlock would ever come to uncertainty.

"Hello." I replied, my tone brisk, my expression blank on purpose. I was being very deliberate about flicking through the TV channels, not looking at him.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I have something to ask –"

"Ten hours."I was still looking at the telly.

"...What?"

"_Ten hours! Sherlock!" _My voice was a bit too high-pitched, and I was suddenly too annoyed to keep my thoughts to myself. I was staring at him now, waiting for him to react. _Wanting _him to react.

Sherlock frowned, wrinkled his nose a bit, and moved further into the room, shrugging off his coat. When he spoke again, it was as if I hadn't. He didn't look at me.

"Another worthless case, I'm afraid. Lestrade's really clutching at straws." He tutted slightly, and loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. "There _is _oneelement of the investigation that I will look into a little further, though. It may be enough to redeem the whole sorry affair." Then his eyes met mine again. If he saw my frustration, he chose to ignore it. "I've had a really long day, John. I think Lestrade has completely bled me dry of all my useful mental faculties. It would help me greatly, if we could...you know, provoke my inspiration with something similar to..." He still seemed unsure. With one hand, he made an vague, half-hearted gesture, "...the bedroom..."

'_No. He wouldn't,' _I thought. Couldn't believe he was really suggesting it. No attention from him for days, and now, without even a 'by your leave', he was asking me for sexual favours?

"Oh yeah! Sure!" I snapped, almost angrily sarcastic, "What was it you were after, exactly – another hand job? Or maybe a blowie, this time? Or how about we cut to the chase, and I just do you straight up the arse?"

I regretted this as soon as I said it. The words rang in my ears; I couldn't bear looking at Sherlock, I was so embarrassed by my childish temper. I never talk about sex like that, _ever, _and doing it that one time suddenly reminded me of the disgusting filth that spouted from the mouth of Jim Moriarty, just a month ago...  
I ran my hand through my hair and looked up at Sherlock as soon as I had the nerve, not really ready for his expression. But he only looked as if he was thinking deeply.

"I hadn't really thought about the technique...though admittedly, I have been thinking about asking you for the best part of an hour." I stared at him, shocked in spite of my nagging curiosity. "Which would you recommend, John?"

"Unbelievable!" I despaired, throwing my arms into the air. _How dare he? _I shook my head in disbelief, before folding my arms across my chest.

Sherlock watched me carefully. He leant forward a little from the waist, peering at me, trying to get inside my mind no doubt.

"_Oh_ – I've shocked you. That's so odd. And you're annoyed with me, too."

"Wow. You're on fire today, Sherlock." I was definitely in one of my more sarcastic moods.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, ignoring my tone. "You're annoyed with me, ostensibly because I've been out of the house for ten hours without informing you of my whereabouts – although that sort of behaviour is in no way unusual for me, and you haven't shown any objection to it since we first met. Therefore, I'm led to believe that the real reason you're annoyed with me is a little more deep-seated, most likely to do with our personal, rather than professional, relationship. This would also be linked to the reason that I've shocked you."

I nodded carefully, trying my best to keep my emotions in check, "I suppose I'm not exactly over the moon with you using me as your rent-boy."

"Yes, I hear that can be quite a demeaning profession," Sherlock mumbled, like he was talking about the weather.

"_Demeaning?" _I yelled, outraged. "Sherlock, you can't just use me for sex whenever you feel like it. What about _my_ feelings! Do you have any idea what that sort of thing can _do_ to a person?"

"Your feelings?" Sherlock looked, and sounded, confused - I thought, for one mind-numbing second, that he had forgotten that I had any. "Do forgive me, John, but you've never actually communicated them to me. Nor have you previously shown any objection to our former..._arrangement_."

"_Arrangement_!" I yelled again, bewildered laughter in my voice. It looked like we'd started parroting each other. "Forgive _me_, _Sherlock, _but I don't think we really have what you're calling an 'arrangement'. I never _agreed _to anything!"  
I fumed silently for a while, then narrowed my eyes.  
"Actually, _you _kissed _me_ first, I seem to remember." My mouth twisted into a half-smile, but I didn't find it funny.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Not the sort of infantile argument I'd expect from you, John, but fair enough."  
He shrugged, sinking into the sofa, before cocking his head to one side, looking at me in a bird-like way, and folding his hands neatly in his lap. I felt the need to prepare myself, but I didn't know what for.  
"I kissed you because you'd shown an unwarranted amount of affection for me by dressing my wounds and suchlike – wounds which, I should add, weren't particularly serious and didn't require any professional medical attention –after..."  
He didn't finish the sentence. I raised my eyebrows in surprise - he still seemed to be struggling with the memory of Moriarty's attempted rape.  
"Obviously, people don't usually bestow affection on someone unless they hope that it will be reciprocated. I wouldn't want to be the cause of any on-going self-esteem issues on your part by not responding to your efforts."  
I was totally speechless by this point, stunned by what I was hearing.  
"Plus, _you_ kissed me on the forehead - after which you licked your lips. Don't try and say you didn't," he quickly added, raising a pointed finger. "I remember it as if it were a film playing in my head. Now - any behavioural scientist will tell you that most humans, in anticipation of oral satisfaction, be it in the form of food, drink, or sexual contact, will lick their lips."

"Oral satisfaction?" I mocked - still parroting him.

"Yes. Clearly, you wanted to kiss me. I could tell that you were struggling with this concept, not to mention the implications of it, so I…helped you along, a little."

I felt my hackles raise, "Bullsh–"

"Hmm? You think so?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing. "I'm never normally wrong about these sorts of things, I'm sure you'll agree."

"You know, _very _well, that I'm not the kind of guy to feel any sort of 'on-going self-esteem issues', Sherlock."

Sherlock coughed, in the most irritating way imaginable. "Uncontrollable shaking of the hand, psychosomatic limp, unwarranted reliance on a walking stick, overpaid therapist..."

I gave him my most severe look. He paused, the corners of his mouth ever so slightly curled into a smile.

"I didn't _ask _you to kiss me, did I?" I complained, my tone of voice still a bit too high-pitched. "You could have ignored any kinds of 'signs' you saw."

Sherlock ignored me. He tilted his head again, and his voice rumbled slightly in his throat, "And then there's what happened in your room..."

"What about it?" I was starting to feel a little panicked. Sherlock was backing me into a corner, so to speak, and I wasn't sure if I'd be able to fight my way out of it. "Did I agree to this fictional 'arrangement' _then?"_

"I may be wrong – highly unlikely – but I believe you said to me, just before you masturbated me," I jerked in my chair at the mention of it, "that you 'sort of wanted to ask me about where things were going between us, that you kind of felt that you needed to know where you stood, that I'd given you no clues at all, and that it was driving you... a little bit mad' – I believe those were the exact words." He repeated this back to me as if he was reading out a shopping list.

Clearing my throat slightly before speaking (my mouth had quite suddenly gone very dry), I replied, "That _did not _mean that I was giving you permission to use me whenever you have a hard-on and fancy solving a case." I rolled my eyes, "Anyway, you wanked me off, too."

"Hmm." Sherlock nodded. _Was that a smile?_

"So what _did_ it mean, John? If not that."

I was lost for words. I knew that whatever I said next would be crucially important, so I took my time, thought carefully. Did my best to try Sherlock's patience.

"I wanted to know if you felt anything for me, besides friendship." I admitted in the end, my voice slightly stuck in my throat. The words stung my windpipe as they dragged themselves out of me.  
"Now I see that I was stupid – _so bloody fucking stupid _– to fool myself into thinking that you could have any room in that _brilliant _mind of yours for a meaningless relationship."  
I felt an unsettling iron grip around my heart, one that I didn't expect at all. _God, was I about to cry?_

Sherlock looked totally cool and composed. But I could see the cogs in his mind turning. He suddenly looked up, after a good thirty seconds of complete silence; the look in his eyes made an icy surge shoot through my whole body.

"Tell me, John, what reasons could you possibly give that would convince me that _you _feel anything for _me_, besides friendship?"

I sighed, not completely surprised by the question, but not wanting to reply and not trusting myself to say anything right. Apart from all that, I was secretly terrified that, milliseconds after hearing the question, no less than twenty separate reasons flashed straight into my head.

"I – I find your – the way you read my thoughts – quite – _astonishing_, at times..."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and stood up, making his way towards the door, "Alright, John, I can see that I've asked too much of you. We'll forget this ever happened, shall we? I'm off to bed, try not to make too much noise when you –"

I rushed to my feet - couldn't let him leave. I wasn't sure why at the time. _Now _I know.

"_FINE!_"

The shout stopped Sherlock in his tracks, and I felt an adrenaline high hit me. I started ranting ten to the dozen, my voice far too loud.

"How about when we're investigating a case, and you're surrounded by complete _morons _that haven't got a clue just how much of a genius you are, and you look at me like we're the only two people in the world that share this - this amazing…secret… It makes me feel – important, _wanted_, and I feel like holding you so close, so tight that there's no question – that you're mine and I'm yours?"

Sherlock was frozen to the spot, hadn't turned around. I carried on – couldn't stop, the words were spouting out of me uncontrollably. It felt _so_ fucking good.

"Or how about when you solve a case, and you smile like a total madman, and your whole face, your whole _body _lights up, and you give off this addictive…_energy_, that fills me up till I think I could overdose on you? Or the way your whole body shudders when you come, like you might explode? Or maybe because you're probably the only person I know who _respects _me, who treats me like I deserve to have an opinion, who's put any value on my existence at all? Or that when you sit concentrating insanely over your books and your laptop and your forensics and your severed body parts, you have that look of total passion and determination that makes me completely drawn to you, makes me want to watch you for hours on end? Or maybe it's the feeling of your lips against mine? – that…_softness_, that determination… Or that you take the trouble to teach me something new about myself every day, something that no one else can be bothered to see, and make it sound like it's the only reason you need to want to spend all your time with me? Or maybe because when I'm in bed at night, I think about you; what you might be thinking about, what you might be planning, whether you're thinking about me… and I start to get hard when I wonder what it would have been like if I'd never told Mrs Hudson that we needed separate bedrooms?..."

It took me a while to realise that I was breathing heavily, that my mouth was completely dry.  
The impact of what I'd said slowly caught up with me and overwhelmed me: cloying, clinging to my skin, piercing to the bone. I started to feel hopelessly cold, started shaking all over. Then I collapsed into an empty armchair, my shoulders sagging.

"Happy now?" I asked weakly, a tremor in my voice.

Sherlock said nothing for a while. But I could hear that he was still there, standing behind me, near the door.  
Then I heard his clothes rustling.  
Sherlock came to sit in the chair opposite me, put his head in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. He was looking deeply, so deeply into me, in a way that was confusing and yet wonderfully familiar. But I leaned away from him, scared of what the look might mean.

"Look at me, John."

I did.  
Sherlock spoke in the same, shopping-list tone of voice, but he had a small smile on his face, and a strange _warmth_ in his eyes.

"Your courage. The fact that you aren't afraid to speak your mind, even if you aren't sure of the merit behind your convictions. That you have seen true, abject, unadulterated cruelty, and instead of allowing yourself to succumb to the horror and the memory of it, you have used your experiences to achieve positive ends. That you aren't afraid to tell me how ignorant I can be, because you only want to see me succeed. That you assign me with feelings, despite all my childish protestations in the past that I didn't have any, knowing that it is my only shield from the dreadfulness of this world of _stupid _and_ terrible _people, and wanting to be my escape from all that. That self-satisfied look on your face after I make you come, and the way it lingers for as long as the silence does. Your thirst for the battlefield. That you mistrust my pompous ass of a brother almost as much as I do, and he hasn't been your constant torment for over thirty years. The way you moaned my name, that night, and the warmth of your breath on my face. That you have considered risking your life for me on several occasions, even though I have never asked it of you, and never would. That you saw me at my weakest and most vulnerable and didn't shy away from me – on the contrary, you took it upon yourself to show me that I deserved so much more than a malicious attempt at rape..."

Sherlock was a bit breathless too, after that. His voice was a little clearer when he spoke again.

"The truth is, John, I really didn't believe I deserved, or particularly wanted, anything of the kind. That you did that for me is something that my mind has been battling with for quite some time. But I did...you know...appreciate it."

I felt completely numb, with the weight and impact of those words pinning me down as if I'd been paralysed. I looked at Sherlock for a long time, not sure how to act – but scarily aware of the almost suffocating warmth coming up through my chest and spreading into my throat, my stomach, all my limbs. I realised that, even though I wasn't prepared for it, this was exactly what I'd wanted to hear, and that Sherlock wasn't saying it to manipulate me in any way. He was saying it because for him, it was true. And now he knew how I felt about him too. It was an incredible relief, and yet incredibly strange, to realise that we couldn't be under any illusions about each other anymore.

"I thought you'd never speak about that night," was all I could say – I was worried that my voice or body would betray my self-control otherwise.

"It wasn't so difficult," Sherlock replied, unusually modest. His voice was elegantly soft, now. I hardly ever hear him like this, and it gave me that same warm feeling, made my heart beat faster. "Turns out I have many more reasons to value that night for the best of memories, rather than discard it for the worst."

"This isn't easy for me, Sherlock. I hope you can understand that." I was sorry to say it, didn't want to ruin the moment, but I needed to – I wanted him to know that I was coming to terms with my feelings, but that I was – and am – terrified of being hurt. Even after hearing it with my own ears, I didn't dare accept what Sherlock had said.

"You need to come to terms with some things, John -" Sherlock came to kneel in front of me, his eyes level with mine – holding me to the spot, without touch. "- that you can _trust me_. That we are in this together; that I need you. That our relationship may always be something that I will have difficulty with, but that I will _never, never _use you. You aren't my prisoner, John. You are completely at the mercy of your own free will." He leant back a little, looking at me almost timidly from under his eyebrows. "But I very much would like you to remain in my life."

I smiled, putting my head down and shaking it slightly. When I looked up at Sherlock again, I could see the confusion on his face.

"Free will…OK. What if my next act of free will is kissing you, full on the mouth, right here, right now?" I asked, leaning forward, my eyes focusing on his soft, sweet, tempting lips.

Sherlock laughed softly; the sound made my thighs ache.

"You licked your lips again," he said, rather smugly.

"No I didn't!"

"No, maybe not. But you definitely twitched your right eyebrow."

"And what does _that _mean?"

"I'm not _entirely_ sure." Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, causing more damage than repair, and narrowed his eyes. "You've only done it twice in my memory. The first time was when we were kissing in the living room, and you started to have an erection." I winced. _Did he always have to be so blunt? _"Second time, we were lying on your bed, and you were starting to undo my trousers. Did you have an erection that time too? Yes, I think you did. It might be something to do with arousal, then. Perhaps the muscles in your right eyebrow have a direct affiliation with the amount of blood flow to your pe–"

I kissed him then - partly to shut him up, partly because I wasn't willing to wait any longer to taste that amazingly clever mouth. It was more of a reward than I'd imagined, after everything that had passed between us – we had no inhibitions, every movement we made seemed like a physical extension to our words. We devoured each other, my tongue sliding eagerly into Sherlock's mouth before he had even come all the way to meet me. I grabbed the back of his head, pulling him close, as close as I could, repeatedly attacking his mouth from any comfortable angle, while he indulged my movements with subtle adjustments of his mouth and tongue, his soft laughter sending musky tremors down my throat. I laughed too, but it was punctuated with small, sharp moans of longing – _God, I wanted him so badly_. Our bodies struggled for closer contact, our chests moving nearer and nearer to each other, and Sherlock leant upwards on his knees and rested his hands on the back of the armchair to steady himself. We rubbed smoothly against each other, the friction matching the rhythm of every separate kiss. I moved my thighs apart, edging forward so that we were pressed completely flat against each other, Sherlock's hips fitting neatly between my legs. It was almost as much as I could take; I arched my back into him, blown away by the warmth, the firmness and reassurance of his slim, strong body.

Breaking apart from him suddenly, I moved away from Sherlock's mouth, and put my lips to his ear, panting softly against his chest.

"So: hand, mouth, or...?"I asked, adding a slow kiss against the pulse point in his neck to each option.

"_Oh._" Sherlock sounded surprised, "You're –?" I looked back into his eyes, close to laughing.

"I was pissed off with you Sherlock, but I wasn't planning on saying no." I smirked.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled, slightly breathless. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he let me kiss his neck down, slowly down, across the exposed skin under his collarbone. Moriarty's mark was still there, and I gave this spot obvious attention, knowing that Sherlock would appreciate the gesture. As my lips brushed against the pink, raised scar, I heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat, and one of his hands moved to clutch at my hair. I made a small sound of appreciation when I felt his tongue slick against my jawbone, leaving a humid trail.  
"Let's go to my room," Sherlock offered, something – probably lust – catching in the back of his throat.

"_Your _room?" I asked, quite confused by the suggestion. "Is it safe?"

Sherlock had never asked me to come to his room before (well, he's never really had any reason to), apart from the night when we kissed. That time, to be fair, I actually invited myself – and there was too much on my mind to really take any notice of it.  
Mrs Hudson had told me before that he was always cagey about letting her in there, except to bring him a cuppa once in a while.  
The idea that he was giving me permission was strangely exciting – like being let through one of those mysterious-looking 'Private' doors that I've seen in large commercial buildings.

"Mm. I want you in my bed," he rumbled.

The confession, and the obvious careful thought behind it, made me shudder with pleasure. I remembered what he'd said earlier: that he'd been thinking about asking me for...a _repeat performance..._ for quite a while, and started to think about asking him just what his thoughts had actually been.

Sherlock led the way upstairs with his usual spontaneous enthusiasm, sprinting lightly and sweeping through the door while I jogged briskly behind, my knees slightly jellified. He was already riving the duvet from the bed when I edged nervously through the door, and as I came towards him, my feet only managing to take me a few centimetres each step, he started unbuttoning his shirt, peeling his arms out of the sleeves.  
He turned and paused at the sight of me, his mouth making a thoughtful curl. He could obviously tell how nervous I was, so I gave him a small smile and shrugged, as if to say 'Don't worry, I'll get used to the idea.'. This seemed to reassure him that I wasn't having second thoughts, and he gave a small nod before taking his shirt off completely. I was hit by memories of the smooth, pale lines of the muscles in his chest and stomach, and the front of his torso, misted weakly with soft black hair. Another memory attacked me suddenly: of me, in this room, bathing his wounds, and I made an embarrassing whimpering noise before I could stop myself.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked, moving his hands to his belt.

"_Hnnh – _I – I never noticed before– that _this _is what your room looks like..."I stammered, swallowing rapidly as I tried to keep my thoughts clean.

It's definitely an interesting space. Not filled with the bizarre and macabre bric-a-brac that covers the living room, but littered everywhere with newspaper clippings, laminated police files and about twenty half-finished mugs of tea. It's got a lighter feel than the rest of the flat, though: decorated in a paler, fresher colour than my bedroom, and stripped completely of any curtains or blinds on the windows, so that on that night, that the silver-tinged darkness and orange glow from the streetlamps poured in from outside, casting strange, muddy-looking shadows across the walls. I could have been disturbed that Sherlock's window was left open to the world, even at night, but he hadn't turned the lights on, so anything we might get up to would (thankfully) stay private.

Sherlock showed an impressive amount of patience – for him – letting me delay the moment by studying every tiny detail of his room. But I had to face up to my decision eventually; remember just how much Sherlock actually meant to me and how much we'd both sacrificed (our pride, our sense of privacy…) to commit ourselves to this moment.  
When I finally plucked up the nerve to look him in the eye, he'd not really moved, but I could see the beginnings of an erection standing proud against his trousers. He caught my stare in his, flashed a small smile, and held out his pale hand.

"Come here, John."

How could I refuse that…_hungry_ glare?  
I walked towards him, stuck between trying not to seem too enthusiastic and making sure my nerves hadn't stopped my feet working. After what seemed like hours, I was inches away from Sherlock, one of my hands pressing into his hip. I felt his hot breath ruffling my hair; my breath hit the soft skin at the base of his neck. He raised a hand and used it to prop up my chin, bringing my face up closer to his, as he stooped forward slightly to meet me.  
We kissed carefully, testing each other. Sherlock hummed softly against my lips – it sounded like he was laughing – and I could feel his smile pressed against me. Feeling a bit braver, I grabbed him by the waist with both hands and pulled him closer, gasping as our pelvic bones collided against each other…and our swollen pricks. Our trousers cushioned the feeling, but I could tell how hard he was. I really wanted him naked, then, more than I could've ever thought I would. My hands slid along the smooth waistband of his trousers, feeling that he'd already half-undone his fly, and I helped him out of them completely, dropping them at his hips so that they crumpled in a heap around him. Sherlock seemed too deeply involved in kissing me to help me out of my clothes, so I took off my own shirt and jeans, my breath shuddering when the cool air hit my hot, blood-pumped skin.

"Tell me, Sherlock," I panted, rubbing myself on him like an animal leaving its scent. "Tell me what you were thinking about, earlier, when you wanted to ask me to have sex with you."

Sherlock was mumbling something. I felt an electric jolt shoot up my spine when I realised what he was saying.

"Hmm...eight inches long, three-inch circumference. I'd have guessed seven inches long, from the other night. But I didn't get a good, _long_ look..."

"Stop that!" I cried, angling my hips away from him.

Sherlock grinned. I realised he wasn't going to tell me anything unless I looked like I was hanging on his every word – vain sod. I rested my arms on his hips and turned my face up to him, glaring so that he knew I was only playing along because he was making me. He looked pretty pleased with himself; wrapped his long arms around my shoulders, and pulled me in closer, looking straight at me so that our noses almost touched. I kept fighting back the urge to kiss him.

"Actually, it was all Lestrade's fault."  
I felt myself cringe – hearing the Inspector's name was definitely a mood-killer. Sherlock made a small, annoyed noise.  
"_Please._" He sighed. "It's not as if I'm asking you to picture him in his underwear."  
I groaned and tried to pull away, but Sherlock wasn't going to let me off that easily. He held me fast, freezing me again with that piercing stare.  
"Trust me, it gets better."  
He flashed a smile. I felt his stomach settle against me, and the warmth of his skin against mine kept me interested.  
Sherlock carried on, "He'd spent the best part of two hours asking me: 'What does _this _mean, Sherlock?', 'Have a look at _this_, will you Sherlock?', 'Sherlock, please will you come and spend ten minutes studying this pathetic little bloodstain that has pretty much already been obliterated by Anderson's clumsy paws?'"  
Sherlock doesn't normally exaggerate like this – I smiled at his ranting, and he noticed and narrowed his eyes. Doesn't like it when I laugh at his childish bickering with Lestrade.  
"_Anyway_ – asking me a barrage of pointless questions when it was blatantly obvious that there was virtually nothing else to be drawn out of this non-starter of a crime scene."

"Apart from your one important element?" I remembered what he'd said earlier, curious about the case in spite of having _other _things to think about. No wonder we get along so well. I'm almost as addicted to Sherlock's dark underworld of crime as he is.

"Patience. I'll get to that later," he replied, and shut me up pretty well with a kiss on the nose. _Bloody weird gesture. _I laughed softly.  
"I told Lestrade, for the fourth time, that there was nothing else I could do; that I might as well get back to Baker Street and continue my investigations from there, especially since Anderson's cologne was starting to hurt my sinuses. Then the Inspector says: 'It's a shame you can't provoke your inspiration somehow, Sherlock – you know, the way you did with the Poppy Killer. That was some lightning bolt from the blue.'"

"_Oh, my, God,_" I breathed, and burst out laughing uncontrollably at the pained look on Sherlock's face.

"I'm glad you're taking it so well," he said softly, one eyebrow raised. "After all, I could've explained to Lestrade just _what it was _that 'provoked my inspiration' that day."

"Ha! You wouldn't..." I snapped, but I wasn't quite sure.

"No, you're right. Lestrade's got a pretty weak constitution. Plus he already suspects that Anderson and I are having a secret love tryst." He was completely serious.

"_Anderson?"_

"Mm. Revolting, isn't it. Unfortunately for Lestrade, that 'love/hate' nonsense is just another insufferable cliché."

Sherlock started to move us towards the bed, using just the pressure of his stomach to guide me. I straightened my back as the mattress pressed against the backs of my legs. Sherlock moved me gently into a sitting-down position, and then knelt over me, knees straddling my hips, arms hung limply by his sides. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and just looked at me for a few seconds, before speaking again.

"Well, as you can imagine, this got me to thinking."

"Yes, you are quite the thinker," I said, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Shh..." Sherlock told me off, before putting his hands on my chest and pushing me back slowly until I was lying down on the bed. He almost swooped down on top of me, and I could see his cock, covered by his underwear, bobbing slightly against his stomach.  
"I'm getting to the best part."  
He put his hands either side of my head, and leant down to kiss me. I kissed him hungrily back, desperate for the hard flesh between his thighs just like I was all those nights ago. _Fuck, it seemed like too long ago. _Sherlock's hand toyed with the waistband of my boxers, and my breath rattled in my throat.  
"So, I'm sitting in my cab...on the way back to Baker Street...knowing that you will be there...when I get back..."Each pause was filled by a slow, damp kiss. "And, not altogether unexpectedly, I started to get a rather uncomfortable hard-on."

I made murmur of approval, and reached up to pull Sherlock closer by grabbing the backs of his (nicely toned) thighs. Sherlock grinned and obliged, sprawling over me, propping his head up with his hands, his elbows rested either side of my head. This new contact was probably the closest we'd ever been; I could feel the soft knurls of muscle between his thighs and pelvic bones, and his throbbing cock was sliding flush against mine. Every time either one of us as much as breathed, the friction was – well, amazing.  
Sherlock looked down at me, a carnal smile on his blood-flushed lips.

"You were...thinking about me..." I panted, swallowing a lump in my throat.

"Of course," Sherlock mumbled softly, his eyes making a sweep of my prone, semi-naked body. "More specifically, John, I was thinking about your soft, hesitant, yet tactile mouth; the excitable tension in your various, combat-toned muscles; and the sensitivity of your hand as it closed around my..._unnghhh..._"

I'd caught him off-guard; pulled his boxers down while he was halfway through his little speech and repeated the action he was just about to describe. But this time I was more confident. I'd curled my fingers around his cock and moved them firmly from the base all the way to the tip, dragging my thumbnail against the underside of his shaft. The movement made a shudder run all the way through Sherlock, ending with a fast trembling in his shoulders. _Hmm, so you like it that way, _I thought, seeing the cat-like smile spread across his mouth and even to his eyes.

"I don't think I shall last the distance tonight, John – I think it best to ditch the formalities..." Sherlock was sliding his boxers off all the way, and started taking off mine before I had time to react. I didn't stop him; in fact I was pretty much just lying there, wondering what he was talking about.  
He hitched my underwear past my knees, before looking back up to my face, seeing my expression, and thrusting his tongue into the corner of his mouth.  
"In other words," he explained, intoning every word carefully as if I was hard of hearing, "I really do believe I shall orgasm before we even have a chance to discuss which page of the _Kama Sutra _we'll be reading from tonight."

I don't know which struck me the most – that Sherlock knew what the _Kama Sutra _was, or that he seemed to be as ragingly horny as I was. But he didn't need to give me any more information – the message was loud and clear. _Go with the flow, Johnny boy. _So I did.  
Sherlock moved his eyes from my face, to the pulsating red thing between my thighs. I arched my back carelessly, silently pleading with him to touch me, _touch me, oh God _do _anything _to help me get rid of this aching need.  
He didn't. Instead, he laid himself on top of me, his face level with mine, making sure to roll his hips _just so_ that our pricks collided together deliciously, slicking along the entire length with the dampness that had coated each of them. I drew in a biting gasp of air, screwing my eyes shut, feeling a dull, humid heat spread from my hips all the way up to my hairline. Once Sherlock's own wave of feeling had passed through him and his eyesight had cleared, he looked at me, gave a small, swift nod, and set his mouth in a firm, hard line.  
Now I get what that look meant: _'Okay, that one works. I'll go with that.' _If I'd known at the time, I would've braced myself properly.  
Quite suddenly, Sherlock started to thrust himself against me, almost out of control. His eyes were closed and his jaw was hanging open slightly, his forehead creased with each determined effort to rub his hard, glistening cock against me. I was totally thrown at first, couldn't move, just watched him, watched the ripples of intense effort passing through his muscles, watching the sweat beading in his hair. But the friction between us was incredible, overwhelming, and I started grinding my own hips against him, matching his rhythm stroke for stroke, my hands clawing at his back for grip as I strived for as much contact as possible. Despite being laid the wrong way across the bed, we had just enough room for manoeuvre, even taking into account Sherlock's height. It did leave me a bit disoriented, though. Or maybe that was the wild rocking of the bed frame.  
He was right – clever bugger. Neither of us would have had enough stamina to get through anything even slightly long-lasting – probably because of our previous 'dry-spell', and maybe because neither of us are exactly experts when it comes to...this kind of _stuff._ Just a few minutes of this mad rutting was enough to drive us both over the edge. Both of our moans were getting louder and louder – weird, I wouldn't have expected Sherlock to be the moaning type. When he came though, he didn't make a sound, didn't say a thing – none of those incoherent speeches that are either ridiculously sentimental or unnecessarily dirty. He just sighed deeply and wound his hands in the bed sheets.  
Can't say I was as refined. In fact: "_Oh SHERLOCK oh holy fuck that feels sofuckingGOOD_!" I think were the exact words I used. _Christ.  
_We laid on the bed, side by side, which seemed to be our ritual now. I listened to Sherlock's breathing and resisted the urge to put my hand on his chest, to see if it felt as soothing as it sounded.

"Wonderful," he breathed; I could hear the smile without seeing it.

"Yes?"

"Oh yes." I saw him grab his hair gently, as if he was trying to jog his brain. "I still can't quite contend with just how _wonderful _it feels."

"Hmm, now you know what you've been missing," I answered, sounding like the expert even though I hardly knew any more about homosexual sex than Sherlock did.  
"So much for 'only the work', eh?"  
Sherlock gave me a sharp stare, so I shrugged apologetically.  
"By the way..._Kama Sutra?_ How did you –?"

"Confidential, need-to-know information John – I think I'll save it until we actually get the chance to _do_ something from it," Sherlock interrupted, and I felt like I'd turned to water.

Tempted as I was to ask him if we could do something _now_, I decided to change the subject.

"So, did you figure out the important little detail? Of the new case?"

"Hmm. Most certainly. And it has a lot more merit than I could ever have imagined."  
He turned his head to look at me, and I was shocked by his fingers creeping across my arm.  
"Reminds me of _someone_ I know."  
The look in his eye could only be described as affection. I answered him in kind in the best way I could, pulling my body up against him slightly. We were both sort of sticky with sweat.

"So, are you going to call...Lestrade?" I asked, the name still making me cringe in – _that _situation.

Sherlock's eyes wandered slightly, "No_..._It can wait a little while."  
He looked back at me with a soft smile and moved a bit closer, draping one long arm around me. He dragged up his knees against his stomach slightly, in a strange sort of foetal position, and brushed my damp hair from my face with his thumb.  
"We _could _tell Mrs Hudson that you have mildew."

"Excuse me?"

"Or some sort of infestation... I can get some pretty convincing chemicals from the lab at Bart's."

"Sherlock...what?"

"That should give you good enough reason to sleep in here for the next few weeks. You know, give you chance to find out 'what I might be thinking about, what I might be planning, whether I'm thinking about you'..."  
I frowned at him – but I wasn't really all that angry with him. I just hoped he'd realise that I didn't appreciate this new trend for remembering what I say word for word.  
"And then of course you will _know for certain _what it would have been like if you'd never told Mrs Hudson that we needed separate bedrooms..."

That man never ceases to find new ways to astound me.

Yours, cheerfully,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Whoo! I've been so looking forward to updating this – basically the undercurrent to all my everyday thoughts has been the progression of this fic! It's so damn fun to write!  
Anyway, I figured that the best way to carry this forward was to involve the duo in a new case, and convey just how the monumental changes in their relationship have come to affect the way they approach crime-solving. I wouldn't even dare to emulate the genius of a Moffat and Gatiss offering, but I hope you will still be intrigued for the conclusion! Oh and mucho mucho hugs to my kind reviewers, favourite-ers and subscribers! (N.B. Chapter updated 30.11.10)_

_**...**_

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

I don't think either of us realised just how important Sherlock's latest realisation would turn out to be.

I slept in Sherlock's bed that night. Not as scandalous as I'd like to pretend it was; Sherlock himself spent about two hours laid next to me, snoring slightly, before he suddenly shot bolt awake, tore himself out of bed and started pacing in the living room downstairs.  
I don't know for sure if he was definitely pacing, because I was asleep again pretty much as soon as he'd gone, but I assumed that that's what he was doing, owing to his usual strange habits.  
He told me later that he'd been picking apart the details of the new case so far, and that he'd had to make 'some calls'. Why anyone would answer their phone to Sherlock at three in the morning, I can't imagine.  
Then, sometime before six, he crawled back in with me, kindly told me that he could tell by the dilation of my nostrils that I was also awake, and let me know that he would go to Bart's for some suitable chemicals to wreck my room with in an hour or so, leaving me to get ready and meet him at the cafe opposite for a quick breakfast at around half eight. I grunted to show that I'd been listening, before rolling over and going back to sleep.  
It was only when the alarm on my mobile woke me up at eight that I was stricken with the thought: why was I meeting him in a cafe? Where were we going?  
This was followed quite quickly by a flash of confusion – why was my phone on Sherlock's bedside table, ringing an alarm? I hadn't taken it upstairs with me from the living room.

I stretched my shoulders and groaned softly, before leaning over and stopping the alarm. When the screen cleared, it was replaced by a new text from Sherlock: 'Morning. Hope I didn't wake you too early. Assumed, going by your preference for long showers in the morning, that you'd want 30mins to get ready. Cafe, remember? 8.30? Bring your thinking head with you please, not the other one. SH'.

I laughed blearily, forcing myself out of bed. My body ached slightly from last night's activities, but my heart felt strangely light in my chest. It was a heart relieved from a lot of its troubles.

After reaching one arm over my head to reach an itchy spot between my shoulder blades, I then padded to the bathroom for a shower. Sherlock was right – a quick ten minutes just isn't enough for me. On the way, I noticed that Sherlock's discarded clothes from the night before – socks and all – had been gathered and piled neatly by the door. I am starting to notice more and more of Sherlock's eccentric little quirks every day; made a mental note to bring this particular one up in passing conversation later – mainly so I could have some harmless fun at the 'infallible consulting detective's' expense.

Making my way to Bart's in a taxi a while later, I couldn't help fidgeting in my seat, my left knee rocking uncontrollably. I kept glancing nervously out of the windows, wondering if I could make some excuse, hop out of the taxi and leg it before I had to reach my destination.  
The longer I'd been in the flat by myself, getting ready to meet Sherlock for breakfast, the more I'd let myself give in to doubt, and let my imagination run away with me. I started worrying that things would seem so much different, in the cold light of day – that Sherlock would forget his words from last night, forget everything he'd confessed, forget that, just that one time, he'd let himself give in to his feelings. I was worried, too, that the same could be said for me – that I would see him in case-solving mode once again, and forget all about the man that I'd had the briefest glimpse of in the bedroom last night. The one who said that I had more merit than he could have ever imagined.  
It all seemed so completely unreal, now. What if it was all an act? What if he was only saying what I wanted to hear?

Before I knew it, my taxi was pulling up outside the cafe, and I could see Sherlock waiting at the door, his arms clasped formally in front of him. He didn't watch the car approach; he seemed much more occupied with watching the people walking past him. At one point, he actually craned his neck to study an old man carrying a briefcase.  
Having him distracted was actually a godsend, and helped me get rid of some of my immediate concerns. I paid the cabbie, and walked briskly over to him, slightly struggling to breathe properly.

"Morning." There was an annoying stutter in my voice. I wondered if he was being attacked by the same memories from the night before that I was, just from seeing me.

"Definitely top secret. MI6, I believe. Most careless, carrying them around in plain sight like that..."

"Hmm?" I realised he was still watching the man with the briefcase.

He turned to look at me, and I felt a deep relief when I saw his warm smile spreading. I was hit with the sudden thought that I found his face immensely attractive when he smiled. Without consciously doing it, I was smiling right back – beaming, in fact.

"John," he said simply, clapping one hand to my right shoulder. "Hungry?"

"Mm. A bit."

"I knew you'd appreciate the choice," he said with an obscure smile, and stepped aside to let me through the door.

He was right. The cafe he'd chosen was a greasy spoon – the sort with staff who don't know how to cook anything that isn't slathered in animal fat. Not the sort of place Sherlock usually likes to visit, not that he's a food snob. Just that he pays a lot of attention to the advice of dieticians and tries to avoid any cholesterol-raising ingredients. It's the sort of place I love, though. And he'd remembered it.  
We sat down in a booth near the window, and Sherlock waited until the waitress had taken our orders (full works for me; black coffee for him) before taking out a small jar from his inside jacket pocket.

"Mildew spores. Not enough to rot your brickwork, but enough to warrant calling professional cleaners in. Should last a week, maybe two..." He beamed brightly, and took the jar away again before I had chance to read the label. "Don't worry, no one will miss it."

"I would never have thought it, but..." He looked at me in his bird-like way, his hand suspended inside his jacket. "You're _badass_, aren't you Sherlock?"

"Shut up," he scolded softly, moving his eyes away from mine with a half-smile. "You did bring the right head with you, didn't you?" he asked, shrewdly changing the subject.

"Well, I think so. Problem is: my thinking head's got all _kinds _of stuff in it." I looked at him daringly, the smile I was hiding blatantly obvious in my voice. "Like – oh, I don't know – the way you pile up all your dirty washing, _including _your socks, and fold it all into nice little squares! Remind me not to let you loose on my smalls, Sherlock..."

"Oh, funny. _Very _funny, John. Please, do try and be serious."

"Ok, ok." I chuckled, looking up to acknowledge the waitress as she brought our order across. She was a very pretty girl, with long black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Normally I would've taken the time to appreciate her attractiveness a lot more, but this morning I really didn't feel like it. I knew it was because I only had eyes for Sherlock, and the thought didn't bother me.

Something _did _bother me though. She wasn't looking at me, either. She was looking at Sherlock.  
Not just looking. When he took his mug of coffee from her with a small, friendly smile, she actually let her fingers trail across his, and pursed her lips in an unmistakeably flirtatious way. I felt my eyes standing out on stalks, and tried to pretend I hadn't noticed.  
When she'd walked (no, _slinked_) away, I ate my first mouthful in silence, and then brought up the subject as if I'd conjured it out of the air.

"Well, it looks like you've got an admirer."

"Sorry?" Sherlock moved his mug away from his lips, and swiped his tongue across them. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and remembered my self-control.

"That – the waitress? It looks like she –"

"- Oh. Yeah, I know."

"You – you _know._"

"Mm. People aren't usually subtle about that sort of thing. _Are they_?" he asked me, meaningfully. I felt a blush spread up my neck.

I carried on eating in silence, wary of saying anything else in case Sherlock despaired of me completely and decided he would much rather do whatever he'd planned to do without me. Sherlock drained his coffee slowly, occasionally watching me, occasionally turning to watch the people passing by the cafe window. I focused vaguely on the dull sounds of the TV behind me, distracting myself from self-doubt and purposefully ignoring the waitress every time she came past our table.

Once we'd left, and were making our way past Bart's towards the nearest taxi rank, I took the opportunity to clear my mind by asking Sherlock some questions. He _had _told me to bring my thinking head along, after all. I wouldn't be able to do any kind of useful thinking until he gave me some answers to some of my nagging doubts and concerns.

"Sherlock..." I started, quickening pace a little to try and match his long, decisive strides.

"Yes?" His eyes flickered briefly sideways to look at me, but he carried on walking at the same speed.

"Have you ever had feelings for a woman?" It was easier for me just to blurt it out.

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a small frown. "Do you not remember our conversation – in Angelo's restaurant?"

"Well, yes. I know – girlfriends, not 'your area'. But that doesn't mean you've never...y'know. _Thought _about a woman before."

"No." Sherlock turned a corner sharply. I jogged a little to catch up with him; sensed how uncomfortable he was but I couldn't let the subject drop.

"But you must have thought about – sex, before?"

Sherlock slowed down a bit. At first I thought he might be lost, but I soon realised that he was giving me chance to get this conversation out of my system, knowing it would take longer than the short walking journey to the taxi rank.

"Yes," he sighed, "but only in a perfunctory way. Only to aid with my analysis of facts. Never with myself taking an active part."  
He stopped walking, almost too quickly for me to notice. I watched him, unsure of his next move. Then he whirled round to look at me, his mouth set into a serious, hard line.  
"To speak candidly, John, what I have recently experienced with you is my only experience of such a kind – a sexual kind. A romantic kind. Anything. Ever."  
I swallowed loudly, but didn't speak or move, knowing that he would struggle with this and not wanting to pressure him.  
"That isn't to say that I don't believe it's the right, and logical progress for our relationship to take, and not to say that I regret our decision in any way..." I noticed his use of 'our' with a small, excited buzz of satisfaction, "...but I still don't quite understand _why _it's happened. Why _you_, why _me, _why _us. _I wasn't consciously guarding myself against such an attachment, John, but I had never really expected to experience it. Perhaps...perhaps it is because you have tried to understand me, in a way that no one else has before. Because we have _both_ made the conscious effort to try and understand _each other_. I could spend the next few months trying to figure it all out, but I'd really rather not analyse it – for your sake, more than anything."

I couldn't think of anything to say that would do justice to what he'd just admitted to me, so I quickly scanned the street to check that we were alone, then sidled up to Sherlock and leant upwards to give him a lingering kiss on the lips. I felt him smile into me, saw the tiniest movement of his muscles relaxing, and sensed his relief. He must've thought that he wouldn't be able to convince me.

"Much as I appreciate your vocality, John, I sometimes marvel at the haste with which you _have _to have your answer to something," he said softly, once we'd moved apart and started walking again.

"I'm not the patient type," I replied, a shrug in my voice.

"No, nor I."  
He made a sharp right turn, and I started to wonder where he was leading me – this didn't seem like the usual way to the taxi rank. We seemed to be passing through some particularly cramped side streets, far off the usual beaten track. Suddenly I became aware of Sherlock's voice again, and the way it rang out in the oddly empty space around us.  
"Have you considered coming out, John? As gay, I mean."

I stopped in my tracks, visibly stunned by the question. Truth was, I'd _never _considered it. Until now.

"Or, indeed, that you might be bisexual?"

"I...I hadn't really...thought about it..." I mumbled, fidgeting with the sleeve of my jacket.

"Well, that's not really surprising – since you've never had homosexual thoughts before...at least, not apart from that one time in the army, when someone offered you a drunken blowjob and you..._almost _accepted it. Blamed it on an unusually long 'dry spell' afterwards, I believe."

I jumped as if I'd been pinched, and glared at Sherlock. "How could you _possibly _know that?...From my clothing? My phone? My _left eye_?"

"No. I read it in your Private Journal. You really do have quite a remarkable memory for facts, John. Better than I'd previously realised -"

"_Excuse me?" _I choked, grabbing him by the elbow to stop him tearing off again. "You...you _read...you read it?"_

I was shocked by his confession, but really all that angry with him for doing it. As I've said before: there's nothing in this journal, _now _, that I have any problem with Sherlock seeing.  
There, written permission. Although, if you're reading this now, Sherlock my lad, don't get too comfortable. It might just be that I've stolen your oh-so-very-secret 'Little Black Book of Deductions', and have decided to have a little read myself.

"I knew you'd take it well," Sherlock replied, with a warm, if slightly smug, smile. "After all, I'm sure there's nothing in there that you would object to me seeing. Including – though perhaps partially _excluding _– your thoughts on what you planned on doing to Sarah, while you were dating."

I cringed awkwardly at that. Had actually forgotten Sarah, over the last few weeks. Needless to say, things hadn't developed between us.  
"You don't have to worry," I told Sherlock, knowing that 'worry' wasn't a word in his personal vocabulary, "I don't miss her."

"I'm not worried," Sherlock said softly, as if the idea were ridiculous.  
He swiftly changed the subject, realising that I wouldn't answer his questions about my sexuality just yet, even though he'd had the decency to answer mine. In all fairness, though, his had been a lot easier to answer. He seemed immune to embarrassment.  
"Now, to business. You might be wondering why I'm not taking us to the nearest taxi rank. Truth is: we don't need a taxi. I just fancied a walk, and knew you would be more likely to unload the issues from your mind if you believed we had limited time to discuss them." Ignoring the look I gave him, he continued, "In fact, we'll be at our destination in approximately...50...yards." And, having said that, he reached for my hand.

I didn't quite register what he'd done, until I realised I could feel leather against my palm – warm leather. At that point, all the muscles in my arm seemed to become liquid. Involuntarily, my fingers interlocked with Sherlock's. Then I remembered we were outside and took a brisk look around to establish that we were alone.

I heard Sherlock chuckling beside me, "With your privacy issues? I wouldn't have dared attempt such a thing." He caught my eye, and flashed me a disarming smile, settling his firm grip comfortably into mine. "You like it when I wear the gloves, don't you?"

I spluttered out a self-conscious laugh. "How could you kn- ?"

"Leather. An erogenous fabric, for most people. Soft as human skin, but with a reassuring, slightly sensual, firmness. Ok, perhaps I took an educated guess. But you always seem to give the slightest unconscious jerk in the base of your spine if I touch you while I'm wearing them."

I shook my head, laughing gently, trying to dispel the image of Sherlock wearing nothing but the gloves, when we rounded a final corner and Sherlock released my hand completely.  
_Damn, I was just getting used to it._

We drew up alongside what looked like an abandoned pub. All the windows were boarded, and the metal hinge which had once held up a sign hung empty. There was no name, no landlord's initials above the door, so I assumed it hadn't actually been a pub for quite a few years, and had since become a private residence. Having said that, there can't have been anyone living there for at least a year. Sherlock gave me no clues, no background information to be going on with, which I _also _assumed meant that he wanted to give me the opportunity to figure out the details myself.  
We crossed the police tape which cordoned off the doorway (wooden door with a metal cage over it – metal cage torn apart, probably by pliers, wooden door kicked through), and Sherlock led me into what must have been the old bar room, but which was furnished more like a living room now, with three old battered leather sofas and a scratched coffee table in the middle. The walls were damp with mildew (_Ugh, is that what we're going to do my room?_) and the carpets had been ripped up, revealing bare floorboards.  
Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were seated on a sofa each, looking more like the low-budget cast of _Friends _than Scotland Yard's finest. The rest of the investigative team were outside, seemingly having done their bit for the day.

"Morning, Sherlock. John." Lestrade greeted us coolly, not turning or acknowledging our arrival in any other way apart from a small jerk of the head. _Not in a good mood._

"Well, aren't we the lively trio?" Sherlock drawled, sweeping around the room in what seemed to be one long flourish of his wool coat, before turning back to me. "Brought John in to see what he could make of things. You got my text?"

"Yes. But honestly, I don't see how you could jump to any new assumptions having _left _the crime scene declaring it to be a complete non-starter." Lestrade was on his feet now, squaring up to Sherlock with his dark, inquisitive eyes. Sherlock stared right back, his distaste at the word 'assumptions' obvious.  
Lestrade didn't press Sherlock for his discovery, presuming (quite rightly) that he wouldn't divulge it until the best possible moment.  
"So, if you show John the – hey, you alright, Sherlock?"

We all turned to look at Sherlock. He was never _not _alright, so for Lestrade to show concern startled us all. When I turned to look at him, I couldn't see anything different. But then Donovan chimed in.

"Woah, freak –" for some reason, it stung _me _to hear her call him that, "- you look a bit...spaced out. Not been on the hard stuff again have you?"

I wondered if I'd missed something, and took a step closer to Sherlock, trying to figure out what Donovan meant – but again, I couldn't notice anything different about Sherlock at all.  
The mention of 'hard stuff' bothered me as well. Sherlock strongly denies being a user, and says that any hard drugs in the flat will only ever be there for case-solving purposes, and would never be in there for more than a few hours. But ever since Lestrade's impromptu drugs bust, I've been a little bit wary.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked slowly from Lestrade to Donovan. His mouth twisted into a small frown.

"I'm _fine_..." he said softly; I could tell he was trying to sound polite when he felt like being quite the opposite.

"Oh yeah, you _look _fine." Lestrade nodded, a slight smile on his face. "But that's the thing: you _never _look fine. You always look...sort of..."

"Highly-strung and pompous?" Anderson offered, earning himself a haughty glare from Sherlock.

"Well, yeah," Lestrade agreed, with a shrug of his mouth. "I hate to say it, but...it's _weird, _seeing you like this. You look – _relaxed._" There was a hint of astonished laughter in the Inspector's voice.

My blood suddenly felt very cold. Because only I could possibly know why Sherlock looked relaxed. Not even he would identify it – how could he? He hadn't even thought about having sex until I'd come into his life. And now – _look at him. Post-coital.  
_I moved even closer to him, not quite aware of what I was doing, which was a big mistake. Seeing the movement, suddenly all eyes were on me. Lestrade and Donovan were both studying me, eyebrows raised, as if I would be able to give them some clues. Fat chance. I wasn't going to give them even the slightest idea of what Sherlock and I had been getting up to. He hadn't sworn me to secrecy, but I knew he wouldn't want his relationship with these particular three people to breach the strictly professional.  
Luckily, I had my own crippling awkwardness on my side. I must have looked such a polar opposite to Sherlock – edgy, uncomfortable, twitchy – that they found no reason to link our behaviours together. I gave a brief shrug that seemed to communicate everything, and they dropped the subject.

Lestrade led us through to the back room of the 'pub', which had a trapdoor in the floor, opening out to reveal a dark, stone staircase. The cellar. Formerly for beer barrels and vintage wines; now just a festering pit, concrete from floor to ceiling.  
This was the crime scene, then. I could almost hear the increase in Sherlock's blood rate as he jogged down the stairs, stopping very abruptly at the bottom, being careful not to step beyond an invisible threshold point. I came up behind him, feeling my hip briefly brush against the small of his back and not flinching, and Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson followed close behind.

Whatever had happened here, there was no longer any trace of it. No body. No blood stains. Nothing. To all intents and purposes, the room was empty. Forensics had wiped everything clean, presumably after Sherlock had lost interest in the whole thing.  
Sherlock turned on the spot to look at me, his face seeming a little stony after the 'spaced out' accusations. But he caught my eye, and I detected a hint of warmth.

"Body was found here, in the cellar. Male, mid thirties, Caucasian, around six feet tall, fully clothed. Name Henry Salter. Only distinguishable mark on him being a stab wound, direct to the heart. Open and shut murder – the weapon was nowhere around, no fingerprints, no distinguishing trademarks of a recognisable killer. Victim has no blood relatives we can contact, no known lover or lovers, and no one saw him enter the building."

I digested the information carefully, my shoulders sagging as the obstacles stacked up. "So...is there anything we _do _know?" I asked, looking from Sherlock to the Scotland Yard lot.

Sherlock smiled briefly, "There's a photo...Photograph?" He looked behind me, assuming that one of the others would speak up, and then sighed impatiently. "_Anderson._" He raised his voice, lifting a hand into the air and clicking his fingers, like an impatient restaurant customer rudely summoning a waiter. "_Photograph."_

Anderson made a cluck of protest, before jogging back up the stairs to retrieve the photo. Sherlock placed it in my hands, pointing to the body of Henry Salter that was sprawled in the middle. This was the crime scene, as it had first appeared. The room looked no different, apart from the obvious presence of Salter, and a small pool of blood underneath him.

"Before Lestrade and his team did a _stupendous _job of _ruining _this crime scene," Sherlock began, looking accusingly at the Inspector, "this is the image you would have been confronted with on entering the cellar. See anything interesting?"

I stared at the image carefully for a few seconds – and, honestly, saw nothing. So I decided to mention instead what I'd noticed from the rest of the building.

"Well, it's unusual that there aren't any barrels or anything in here."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, his tone neutral, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah. You'd think – in an old pub, even if the rest of the stuff was ripped out, they'd see no reason in converting the cellar. Wouldn't be habitable, after having all that booze stored in there. So you'd think they'd at least keep the wine racks, few empty barrels..."

"Pub?"

"Yep," I responded, slightly smug. "The sign? Above the door? The location? Near to a few other pubs. And – well, it just looks like one."

"It wasn't a pub." Sherlock wasn't undermining me, if anything his tone was encouraging.

"No? You sure? I mean, look at the state of it down here. There had to have been alcohol in here at some point. I can bloody _smell _it."

"You're close. People did drink here – and yes, this was used as a storage cellar for wine, beer and spirits. But it wasn't a pub. It hasn't been used as anything of the sort for around...ooh..." Sherlock looked around, as if he could tell from the brickwork. Probably could. "...about one hundred and thirty years? Hmm, give or take."

"Since Victorian times?" Lestrade chimed in, sounding a bit more interested. "So what was it then?"

"A gentleman's club," Sherlock stated, raising his eyebrows. Somewhere behind me I heard a snort of laughter. Had to be Anderson.

"_Gentleman's club?" _he sneered, "Where'd you get that notion from?"

"The metal sign framework outside isn't just rusty, it's antique. Wood for the floorboards from a distinctive type of English pine, not used for building work in London since the late 1800s. And there's a powder, ingrained in the brickwork down here, which can only be opium dust - smoke of choice for anyone with reasonable money. Suggests some form of establishment for the upper classes – they didn't visit pubs, preferred to go to gentlemen's clubs, where the drink was pretentious, the opium clean, and tongues could be as loose as they pleased, without censure. You're quite right, John. No one's cleaned up much in here. Not since Queen Vicky was on the throne."

I smiled at him, visibly impressed. But a thought occurred to me. "So, if it was a gentleman's club until the late 1800s, what was it after that point? Up till the last few years or so?"

Sherlock looked at me; I saw the corner of his mouth curl. "Its purpose never changed."

"But you said that the place was gutted one hundred and thirty years ago?"

"Appearances can be deceiving," Sherlock noted. _You're damn right they can, _I thought, with a shocking flashback of the night before. "The alcohol went – along with the bar, the gas lamps, the questionable wallpaper. But the essence of the gentleman's club never left the place."

"Meaning?" Lestrade asked, his tone slightly impatient.

"Meaning that tongues were still free to be as loose as they liked, here – even looser probably in the twentieth century than they were in the nineteenth."

We all stood silently while Sherlock explained that certain influential businessmen and the like from the city had used this place as a meeting point for at least two hundred years, although from the late 1800s it had been kept deliberately plain from the outside, and the interiors had been cleared of all pretentious decoration. It was the discussions themselves, and not the booze or drugs that attracted people to this spot, after the days of the gentleman's club had ended. But for some reason, unexpectedly, the society had chosen to disband, sometime around two years ago. Whatever the reason was, it didn't look like we would ever find out exactly what they'd been meeting to discuss. Sherlock didn't dwell on this, though, as if the society wasn't the focus of his line of investigation.

"So Salter had nothing to do with this place, then?" I asked, a little disappointed that my own deductions had nothing to do with Sherlock's 'important element'.

"I don't think so. But the fact that he was murdered here makes a point, I believe." Sherlock looked around the room again, then turned back to me, hovering over my shoulder so that he could examine the photo at the same time as me.  
"So, John, have you found the interesting detail yet?"

I desperately tried to ignore the delicious sensation of his hot breath against my ear, and studied the photo again. Then looked back to the room. Salter, blood. No Salter, no blood. That seemed to be the only obvious difference. So I said so.

"Honestly, Sherlock – the only thing that I can comment on is Salter's body. There's absolutely nothing else to notice."

"And?" Sherlock prompted. He sounded excitable.

"Well, you've already said it. Male. Mid thirties. Caucasian. Tall – probably six foot. Stab wound, to the heart."

"_Where?" _he pressed, holding me tightly by both shoulders now. I could almost feel his adrenaline passing into me.

"His...his heart," I repeated, his close proximity to me causing my own to thunder rapidly.

"Precisely!" Sherlock cried, clapping me hard on the shoulders and making me yelp. "Heart!..._Heart." _He stared around at the four of us, no doubt seeing a rank of blank faces. His excited expression slipped. "Oh, I forgot. You don't know yet."

"What? What don't we know?" Lestrade snapped, irritably.

"The name. Of this place. The club. It was called _The Black Hart._" Sherlock let the weight of this sink in, before brushing past me to come face to face with Anderson. "Get it, Anderson? Heart – pumping muscular organ? Hart – medieval word for stag?"

Anderson stayed quiet. So I spoke out. "So, whoever killed Salter killed him here, in that specific way, because they knew the name of the old club? Were they trying to say that he had a black heart? Was that the motivator, then? Love? Or in this case, being incapable of it?"

"Poetic, isn't it, John?" Sherlock's voice was almost velvety smooth, and I felt my breathing flutter. He looked back to Lestrade and co. again, and then adjusted the collar of his coat in the way he always does when he feels his work was done. "Personally, I've never had much time for poetry." He swept back up the stairs, leaving the four of us slightly lost for words.

Lestrade was the first to snap from the melancholic mood. "Sherlock – wait! Is that it? That's all you're leaving us to work with?"

I jogged after Anderson and Donovan, and came out of the basement to see that Sherlock was already making his way back to the bar room.

"For now." He looked at me, and raised his eyebrows in a beckoning way. "John and I have to return to Baker Street. Nasty mildew problem."  
I stifled the urge to smile, and edged past Lestrade with an apologetic half-shrug. Sherlock patted me on the back as I passed, and I heard him address the others as I went out through the kicked-in door.  
"I recommend that your first line of investigation should be local brothels and strip clubs – find out if Salter was a regular at any of them. Use the picture if you have to, he might have used a false name. If not, try contacting local divorce lawyers. We know that Salter was unattached, and recently made redundant by the council, but he may have been involved in an acrimonious divorce in the last few years. Other than that, I'm sure you can conjure a little...initiative."

I waited in the street for Sherlock to appear, my blood rushing a little. It was that unmistakeable thrill – the thrill of a new case. Sherlock's enthusiasm is infectious, and he's right – 'the game' _really is _addictive. I couldn't wait to get back to Baker Street, to find out what plans he had for the both of us, which lines of investigation he'd ask me to follow. And Sherlock is always so much more...engaging, when he has a case to solve. When he's bored, it can be hell just to be in the same room as him. But at times like this...well, I can't get enough of him.  
He came outside a few seconds after me, a subtle, cunning expression on his face. I looked at him calmly, my hands stuffed in my pockets to try and hide my eagerness.

"So, which are we going to look into first? Brothels or divorce courts?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at me with a smirk. "Neither."

"But – you just said – to Lestrade?"

"Come on, John – as if I'd give the _police _all the best leads." He wrapped his arm around me; I was glad no one was around to see it; even more glad that he'd done it, as a spike of heat travelled through me. He leant his head to me, and spoke like a conspirator.  
"They won't find anything relevant to the case, even if Salter _does _turn out to be a recent divorcee or a bit of a sex pest. It's best to find ways to distract that lot, give us the chance to conduct our own research without interruption."

He was talking strictly business – so why did it sound like he was talking dirty? I cleared my throat and leant away from him slightly to look him in the eye, feeling a flush creeping to my face.

"So – were you telling the truth about where we're going? The mildew?"

"Oh, yes. We should really get to that without further delay. And then, dear John, _the game begins!"_

He gave me a tight squeeze with his arm and then released me, tearing off at his usual brisk walking pace. I swallowed heavily and then jogged after him. Some kind of instinct told me that Sherlock had definite plans for what we would do today, _besides _the mildew. But for some reason, he was keeping his ideas a secret from me. We hailed down a cab and travelled back to Baker Street, not talking for the entire journey – which wasn't unusual for us, except that my mind was swimming with possibilities for investigating the case, and I'm sure Sherlock's was too. It's as if we couldn't voice our thoughts, because something else was getting in the way.  
_Anticipation._

Once we were back at the flat, Sherlock disappeared into my room – dispensing the noxious looking spores from the lab, in the most convincing way possible, no doubt - while I was left alone in the living room, standing stock-still as if I was stuck in limbo. I was anxious to start investigating, but I had no idea where was the best place to start, and I knew that any attempt to start without Sherlock would be pointless. As much as I'm getting used to the _science of deduction_, I'll never be a patch on Sherlock. Bloody genius that he is.  
He came back into the room a short time later, beaming and dusting off his hands like a proud craftsman.

"Success?" I asked, as if the answer could be anything but 'yes'.

"Success. Might take around twelve hours to really settle in – after that point, I really wouldn't go in there. Can cause some rather nasty respiratory problems, mildew."

"But – what about my stuff?" I suddenly realised that all my things – measly as they are – were still in the room. Including all my clothes.

"I already took the liberty of moving your things into my room. Since you're going to be squatting in there for the foreseeable future." Sherlock's grin was completely disarming. Impossible to be mad at him for rooting through my stuff– and I wasn't, really. If anything, I was surprised at how thoughtful he could be.

"So, what now?" I asked, gesturing vaguely around the room. It felt like that awkward moment at the end of a date, when you want to ask the person upstairs but you're terrified of misreading the signs. _'This is stupid', _I thought. _'We're working on a case, not trying to get off with each other.' _Then again, we'd already _done _that.

Sherlock's eyes glazed over; he took on that intense, faraway, unreachable look that he always gets when he's about to start investigating a new case. As he paced past me into the room, I took the time to study him while he was distracted. He'd taken off his coat and scarf as we'd entered the flat, and was now just wearing his plum-coloured shirt and charcoal grey trousers. He'd unbuttoned his shirt at the neck, and rolled up the sleeves to his elbows. His feet were bare. My eyes were drawn to his separate, bare expanses of skin: brief, innocent, but tantalising. As if I could connect the dots by staring at these tiny exposed parts of him, I suddenly was suddenly struck by a vivid image of him from the night before: body exposed, kneeling over me, his eyes greedy. I felt my head swimming.  
His pale skin still seemed to gleam, even in the weak light. I brought my eyes back up to his face; he was staring out of the window, one knuckle pressed to his lips.

"Well, it's quite obvious that there was no motive to murder Salter: no illicit connections, no grounds for blackmail." He started pacing in front of the fireplace, his movements getting faster with every phrase.  
"No connection with the location, and neither does the killer – let's face it, anyone can access old city plans and find _The Black Hart_. So we're dealing with a spontaneous killing, with an admittedly poetic yet completely ambiguous motive."  
His entire body shuddered from head to foot, as if he'd been shocked with electricity.  
"Isn't it _brilliant_?" he exclaimed, his expression dreamy, his breathing rapid, as if these impossible odds were the best thing that could've happened to him.

Then his eyes locked onto me; I was shaken by how intense they were. He tilted his head slightly.

"John, look at you..."

I frowned, a slight panic falling over me. "What? What is it?"

Sherlock stepped forward, his mouth quirking in a half-smile, "You haven't even taken off your jacket yet."

"I – what? So?" I asked, while Sherlock trailed round behind me, stalking like a cat.

"You're normally so fastidious. So _set in your ways._ Something must be distracting you..."

He came up behind me, his arms snaking around to open my jacket by the lapels. I squirmed slightly in his grip, the motion making me awkward. Sherlock bent his head to my ear; I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when his humid breath hit me.

"I'm so _excited_, John," he breathed, the words strangely caressing.

"Erm – yeah – me too," I stuttered, not wanting to move out of Sherlock's infectious orbit but feeling slightly at his mercy; he'd peeled the sleeves of my jacket down past my shoulders, so I couldn't move my arms.  
"Can't wait to get some decent leads. Sounds like it's going to be a tough one, though."

"_No, John," _Sherlock was insistent, and his grip on my elbows got tighter, "I mean it. I'm _really _excited." He wasn't lying. His body moved closer to mine, and I could feel the distinct bulge of his erection against the small of my back. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and a conspicuous twitch in my jeans.  
"I think the colloquial expression is: 'pumped'. You can sense it too, can't you John?"  
He was whispering now, moving one arm to thread it around my stomach.  
"That _energy. _It's...intoxicating. I need more of it. I want more of it. _Ah, fuck it - _I want_ you..._" he purred, sliding his palm flat down my stomach so that two of his fingers ducked slightly under the waistband of my jeans.

I yelled out slightly, my hips spasming uncontrollably at the light, teasing touch. My body cried out for more, but my brain was on its own, slightly more rational path.

"Are – are you sure you want _me? _Can't you expel your energy some other way? The violin? Go for a run in St James's? D-dog walking?"  
I was clutching desperately at alternatives, panicking slightly. Each suggestion earned me an insistent grinding from Sherlock's cock, and a growl of refusal.  
"It's not that I don't want to," I was quick to admit, "really, I _do, _but..."

"It's a little out of your comfort zone. I can appreciate that."  
Sherlock began to nuzzle his lips against the side of my neck; I whimpered slightly.  
"Unfortunately, John, I'm afraid sex can't always be on your terms. I've asked you politely before, and now..."

"Now you're _ordering _me?" I whispered, my voice incapable of producing a higher volume.

"I'd prefer to think of it as a 'forceful proposal'," Sherlock replied, sliding my jacket off completely so that it dropped to the floor between us.  
My arms were now freed, but I didn't move them. Partly because Sherlock was now using one of my hands to passively stimulate his crotch.  
"Let's just say I'm making you an offer, one that we will mutually benefit from, and that will only impede the investigation by an half an hour or so."  
'_Half an hour?' _I thought, but kept silent. Wasn't complaining.  
"That is, impede _your _investigation. If anything, it will significantly _improve _mine."  
He grabbed my jaw in his hand and twisted my face gently to meet his, kissing me deeply, his lips deliciously moist.  
"Oh, and I want it by mouth, _definitely, _this time."

I turned round to face him slowly; half-terrified for some reason I couldn't quite figure out. It wasn't that I was having any kind of doubt, or that my attraction to Sherlock had faded in any way, but just knowing that he wanted this so badly, needed it as if it was the only thing that would help him function properly, put a lot of pressure on me to satisfy him. He was right – in the past, I'd been the one who instigated most of what had happened between us, whether I realised it at the time or not. Then, I'd been the one who craved satisfaction, reassurance. Now, it was pretty clear that Sherlock was the one calling the shots.  
Having a perfectionist like Sherlock dissecting your every move would be enough to make even the most narcissistic man alive feel incapable.  
I realised his decision meant that I had to be determined, that everything I did had to be so indisputable that I would be completely in tune with his desires, his drives, his impulses – that my only focus would be his satisfaction, his reassurance, and not mine. But that confident person just didn't feel like _me.  
_Somehow, my relationship with Sherlock had thrived on my constant reassurance by _him_ – reassurance that no one else in my life had ever given me before. Before I met him, it was as if I was on my own constantly, questioning myself constantly, detached from everyone constantly. Now I have someone in my life who feeds off me like the other half to their whole; who, every day, gives me another reason to grab for everything I can in life, and insists on my right to such a life just by sharing his experiences with me.  
And then I realised: in doing this for me, putting me in charge of his pleasure, his release, Sherlock was allowing me past his own, carefully-constructed boundaries. After this, there would be nothing about him that I couldn't eventually come to understand; that he wouldn't be willing to share with me.

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock mumbled, his voice a husky growl.

I looked him square in the eye, felt my shoulders tensing and my adrenaline creeping through me, as it always did when I was going into the battlefield.

"Nothing," I answered determinedly, in a voice I almost didn't recognise, and that particular fear left me for the last time.

My next movements were so quick that I don't think even Sherlock had time to prepare himself. I was on my knees, had his trousers down around his ankles before he could even steady himself against me, and my fingers were scrabbling at his underwear while he sucked in a heady gulp of air as he realised what was about to happen. Confronted at such close proximity with his stiff, blood-flushed cock, I should've been embarrassed, or at least needed some kind of mental preparation, but I knew that Sherlock didn't want me to waste any time; could tell by the way his fingertips sunk into my shoulders. I looked up into his eyes and saw his head hanging drowsily, his hair falling into his eyes, adding to their darkness. His lips were flaming red as temptingly as his shaft, and as much as I wanted to kiss them, to feel them on me again, I knew he was waiting, not-all-that patiently, for me to make my move.

I wasn't careful; this wasn't the time. More to the point, I'd never done anything like this before, so any form of flair or stylish foreplay was out of the equation. I guessed that sucking Sherlock off would be more about making him come as quickly as possible, and not about any skill in the act. So I leant forward, parted my lips, and pressed them gently against the tip of his cock, so that the further I leaned, the more of him I took inside me, in quite a smooth motion. Taking him into my mouth seemed to be the easiest part; easy to cut off from the rest of my thoughts, to concentrate on that one action over anything else. But then Sherlock tensed, from his feet to his shoulders, took in another gulp of air, and moaned so shamelessly out into the room that I felt the sound of it rattling around my skull. I froze, caught unprepared, my tongue darted out in a swallowing motion and I almost gagged. Then I felt Sherlock's fingers threading themselves in my hair, and the firm but easy pressure on the back of my head that encouraged me to take it as far as I could go. Tasting Sherlock: musky and salty and somehow _rich _on my tongue, I urged myself on, moving until I'd swallowed him as far as I could. It wasn't as uncomfortable as I'd imagined – very strange, but exhilarating even then.

Putting my hands on the backs of Sherlock's thighs, thumbs just brushing against his arse, I pulled back, slowly; basically my first movement in reverse. I could almost feel the heat of my mouth melting away from Sherlock's flesh as I moved back, and looked up to see his face twisted in unbearable ecstasy as the cool air hit him. My lips drew away from him with a damp, cloying sound, and I replaced the hollow of my mouth with my tongue, licking small purls against the swollen head of his prick. Sherlock squirmed, his teeth making white marks in his lower lip, and his pleasure gave me confidence. I swallowed him, then, in pretty much the same way I'd handle a French kiss – mingling the sucking motion with swathes of my tongue against the underside of his cock. It looked like he appreciated the variety; he arched his back into me and his hands moved frantically over the back of my neck, my shoulders and the back of my head, eager for some kind of comfortable grip but too far gone to find any. He started to rock on his heels slightly, the movement dragging him in and out of my mouth as I sucked him. It was much easier for me to settle into a decent rhythm that way.

Sherlock's gasps and moans were sharp, passionate – but sort of disbelieving too, as if each new kind of pleasure I gave him was something he never thought he could experience. He dealt with this the same way as he did his most intriguing cases, the time that passed only adding fuel to his enthusiasm and curiosity.  
My mind started to wander, and I wondered if, at that very moment, that seemingly impossible investigation of ours was being unlocked, piece by piece, each movement my body and mouth were making corresponding to a new detail that was sliding into place. I couldn't take my eyes from Sherlock's face – partly from just general fascination, partly because there was something incredibly stunning about his reactions to pleasure.

"Ungh...faster John, _faster,_" he rasped, his eyes hovering to mine, before the sight of me sucking him got too much and he had to focus his stare on the ceiling instead.

I laughed softly against his hard flesh, felt his nerve endings jolt at the sensation. Then I sped up the pace, not taking him so deeply but building up the friction so much that my neck started to ache.  
Sherlock's breathing started sounding ragged; I looked up at him to see that his eyes were tightly closed, like before, so that he could block out anything external and just ride the intense waves of the moment. Within minutes, he shuddered with release, his climax now predictably silent apart from heavy breathing, and I felt his come spray the back of my throat. My first reaction was to swallow; and even though I wasn't prepared for the taste of him, it was a baffling…wonderful feeling.  
I pulled my mouth away as soon as I dared, and leant back on my heels, strangely aware that I must've looked like a lapdog looking up to its master. The comparison didn't bother me; I knew Sherlock wouldn't think the same. He was stock still for quite a while, breathing heavily through his nose, eyes still shut. His fingers eventually loosened their tight hold on my shoulders, and he seemed to come back to reality. His eyes had a strangely clear, almost glassy look, and I could see the hint of a smile on his pale lips. He breathed in deeply, puffing out his chest, and then gave a sharp sigh. He pursed his mouth slightly as he looked down at me.

"Take a seat, would you John?"

His voice was croaky, but somehow still insistent. I blinked, looking back at him suspiciously.

"Are you...ok?" I asked him, a slight sense of humour in the question.

"Yes, I'm fine. Well – more than fine." He flashed a brief grin.  
"The sofa, ideally – if you would."

I did as I was told, still a little bewildered. My legs struggled slightly to carry me there (even without the limp) – but I'd expected that. I sat down calmly, looking as if I was settling in to watch TV on a Saturday night, while Sherlock casually tidied up his clothes and got dressed. He dusted off his trouser legs to his satisfaction, before turning and walking over to me.

"Your knees must be quite sore," he murmured, in a voice that was almost soothing, "I thought you might prefer to sit."

"Well, yes I – woah! Sherlock!"

He'd suddenly come to kneel between my thighs, and was unfastening my jeans, using one hand to lift me up so he could slide them down past my knees. I didn't stop him; wasn't stupid enough to refuse his obvious offer to return the favour, but he paused, anyway, before trying to take off my underpants.

"This is ok? Oral sex, I mean – I don't know if you were considering it or not, but – well, you'd be missing out on something, admittedly, rather enjoyable."

I smiled at him, only blushing a little. "If I'm going to consider it with anyone – at any time – it'll be with you – now," I answered honestly. I spoke softly, mainly because his bluntness had left me slightly breathless.

He nodded. "See how I can observe the niceties?" he asked in a bright voice, as if he was immensely proud of himself. I laughed at him – but I admit my anticipation was getting stronger – I even put my hands on top of his to help him take off my boxers.

He looked from my swollen dick, to my face, and back again, with his head slightly tilted and eyebrows knitted together – and I almost cried out in frustration.  
'_Does he have to be so analytical about everything?'_ the voice in my head moaned, while my breathing became more and more irregular.  
But I should've known that Sherlock's analysis would only improve his abilities; he brought his mouth to me in a slow, decisive way and started to suck with such extraordinary meticulousness and intensity that livid red flashed before my eyes and I felt like I'd almost blacked out. His hands were palm-down at either side of my hips, helping him balance, while mine burrowed themselves recklessly in his thick, dark hair, guiding him even though he didn't exactly need any encouragement.  
Having myself buried in Sherlock's mouth was quite a big deal; I'd experienced the sensation before, but it was so much more intense because of who the mouth _belonged to,_ and because of the almost incredible significance of the action.  
Embarrassingly, I couldn't stop myself from thanking him continuously under my breath, because the way he was doing _what he was doing _seemed to suggest that all of his careful consideration and intuition was focused entirely on me and my pleasure. And each sound of appreciation I made – a moan, a gasp, a sigh, a yell of desire – only encouraged him further, as if it had spurred him on to prove that he was even more skilled than he seemed.  
I didn't last long. In my own defence, I'd been nursing this hard on for some time, and Sherlock was _so bloody good _that I barely had time to draw breath. Eventually, at a point where Sherlock had taken me _incredibly _deeply_, _I felt my mind slipping and my vision swimming black. Then all was fire, heat, sparks and _blood rushing and_

"Oh, _GOD! SHERLOCK!_"

I threw my head back against the sofa cushions and took deep, drowning gulps of air, extracting my fingers from the tangles of Sherlock's hair while I felt him move away and walk to the kitchen. Taps running suggested he was rinsing his mouth.  
Everything else I could have sensed and thought blurred into nothing for several seconds. Then I came round as if I'd been dreaming and sat back upright, pulling my boxers and trousers back around me.  
To return to the world of the living and not see Sherlock there was a bit like being doused in cold water; a heavy concern folded around me and I wondered if maybe it had been too much for him. As much as he had an instinct for this sort of thing, he was still relatively inexperienced. More than me even.

"Uh – you alright?" I mumbled cautiously, my voice sounding sort of fuzzy and seeming separated from my brain.

Sherlock popped his head around the partition wall, his face inexpressive and yet...somehow...was that smugness in his voice?

"Yep. Fine. Water?" He waved an empty mug at me, one eyebrow casually raised.

"Mm. Yeah. Water – 'd be good." I didn't seem to be able to string even basic sentences together. But Sherlock got the idea.

He came back into the living room shortly after, placing the mug of water on the coffee table in front of me before sitting beside me. His posture was sort of – forced, as if he was dying to do or say something but was keeping it pent up inside him.  
I made to reach for the mug – then sighed, and pulled back, half-turning to face Sherlock, unable to stand the terse silence.

"What's up?" I asked, slightly despairingly, "Was it – are you – was _I -?"_I still couldn't string together a sentence, and sort of didn't want to finish any of my thoughts.

Sherlock didn't turn to face me; just moved his arm and gently laced his long fingers around mine.

"Everything's _fine, _John. I'm merely a little concerned for your concept of deity."

"Pardon?" I stuttered, a bit flustered by the hand-holding in spite of the intimacy we'd just shared, and almost too dazed to understand what he was saying.

"You should really be informed: whilst I possess many admirable qualities, it is wrong to invest me with the same omniscience as God. Could cause severe theological and philosophical disillusionment if I allow you to continue."

Cue a prolonged debate on the appropriate times _not _to take what someone says literally – the point of climax definitely being one of them.

Despite this slight diversion, I've no doubt that Sherlock's mind was also primarily focused on his latest case – _The Case of the Black Hart, _I'll call it. And I'm sure I'll have much more to report on that front when I make my next entry.

But for now,

Yours, faithfully,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Sorry, I've not been as quick with this update – back to the world of higher education and not enough hours in the day! I'm splitting up what I planned to include here – regarding the developments of the new case – and so there'll be another chapter after this! Hope you enjoy; I've most certainly enjoyed writing it. (N.B. Chapter updated 11.12.10)_

_**...**_

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

I'm not exaggerating at all when I say I'm the happiest, most relaxed and – well, just _comfortable _that I've been for a very long time. Not wanting to ramble on like a fool in love (now I mention it, I'd like to stress the point that I'm _not,_–that word doesn't sit too comfortably in my mind, never has), I'm pretty sure that the aftermath of the new emotional and physical closeness between Sherlock and me, as well as the stampeding urgency of a new case, has created a calming stillness in me that I've never had from anywhere else – not even the purposeful, humanitarian action of my military efforts.

_The Case of the Black Hart _definitely progressed at a hectic and often bewildering pace, and even though it has already reached its conclusion before me writing this, I'm sure I'll take no less enjoyment from recounting it now than I did from experiencing it.

But it didn't come without its obstacles and pitfalls. Perhaps among the worst we've come up against to date.

It's easy to forget all that now, though. Always easier to forget the unpleasant memories, in favour of the more positive ones – at least on the surface. Unfortunately, I feel the need to recount it all, down to the most gut-wrenching details, because I don't think I'd be feeling this deep calmness now, if I hadn't faced those particular trials.

As always, I'll make a start from where I last left off.  
That was a _good day..._I'm still getting thrills now, just thinking about it. I'd never thought I'd see Sherlock like that – quiet, trusting, immersed and just...  
Wow. Ok, I'm getting sidetracked. Sitting here over my laptop, giggling like a dirty-minded hyena.

To cut out a fair bit of subdued, non-committal post-sex conversation, we did what seemed like not very much for the rest of the day. Sherlock got a call from Lestrade mid-afternoon, to say that his team had been to two lap dancing clubs near to the _Black Hart, _and neither of the two managers had recognised Salter's name, or even his photograph. Sherlock didn't seem surprised; told Lestrade to continue his investigations and report back tomorrow, and told me to try and track down any ex-members of the modern gentleman's club on the internet, while he 'popped out for a bit'. I didn't argue with him, even though I definitely remembered Sherlock saying that the members of the club were irrelevant to the investigation. Maybe he'd changed his mind.  
It seemed more likely that he just wanted an excuse to get out for a while. The atmosphere between us hadn't been tense after the sex – if anything, we both seemed to be wandering around calmly, feeling the need to say very little, just content with the silence. But I suspected that he thought I might somehow distract him from the case – or at least my vanity did. He _did _keep looking at me from the corner of his eye when he thought I couldn't see him.

He came back a couple of hours later – quite a short absence, for him – claiming that he thought he'd known a Salter at one of our local restaurants, but that it had proved to be a false lead. Not related to our Salter, but recommending we search a little further afield, as he did have some extended family up north. I thought that Sherlock could've deduced that from a two-minute phone call, but I didn't say anything.  
My own research on the laptop hadn't gotten me very far, apart from finding a _Black Hart _medieval re-enactment troupe, based in Suffolk – hopefully not related to the case. Wouldn't want to have to wear full body armour in the name of field research.

When we'd done pretty much all we could for the day, we went upstairs to (Sherlock's) bed. I wasn't expecting any kind of sexual contact – I'm not _that _insatiable – but I was kind of curious to see how muchcontact Sherlock would let me have, remembering the night before. We were both pretty spent _then, _too, but I was still a bit put out to see Sherlock curled up at the opposite end of the double, his back to me, slim shoulders moving in time with his gentle snoring, having drifted off without so much as a routine 'goodnight'. I wondered if he would give me some kind of monotone speech tonight, stating that he was a 'solitary sleeper' by nature, rejecting physical contact of any kind whilst his 'hard-drive' was on standby. But some part of me – the part, no doubt, that had gotten itself shot in Afghanistan – couldn't let the idea drop. I had to see how far he would let me go.

I sat against the headboard, arms folded behind my head, watching with a small smile as Sherlock piled up his day's clothing in its neat little squares, and pulled on his pyjamas. Seeing his semi-naked body in the orangey-darkness (yep – still no curtains), I felt a humid weight in the pit of my stomach, and found myself biting my lower lip unconsciously. The thought of having the weight, the warmth, the firmness of his body beside me sent up a wave of excitement and, somehow, tenderness. It's an intimate thing, in my mind, sharing a bed – with anyone. After all, sleep is one of our few complete surrenders. I wanted then, to show Sherlock that he could surrender to me, completely. A part of him already had, and I knew he trusted me, but I realised that my desire to be close to him, to touch him, expressed my need to reinforce this trust in him. Having had just the briefest glimpse of his exposed, intimate self, I started to find that I was distinctly addicted to it.

His eyes met mine in a tiny flicker as he approached the right-hand side of the bed; his expression was blank, but I could almost hear the unasked question in his head, _'Why are you looking at me like that, John?'  
_As he peeled back his side of the covers, and slipped his lithe body inside them, I switched position, lying on my side, my head propped on my elbow. Sherlock lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the covers rising and falling slightly with his breathing.  
I felt courage steel itself inside me, and sank into my pillow, drawing the covers around my shoulders. Then, with my blood rushing in my ears, I drew my body carefully towards Sherlock's – so that we were no more than a foot apart – and put my hand carefully around the curve of muscle in his upper arm. The grip felt just right – not possessive, and not pleading – just warm, quietly considerate. I silently enjoyed the way Sherlock's muscle contracted underneath my fingers, before settling comfortably.  
His eyes slid to mine, and I felt my lungs tighten.  
"G'night," I said softly, my voice cracking a bit because I was intensely aware of the silence in the room. I managed a brief smile, before I lost my nerve and had to bunch my shoulders up around me to reassure myself. I didn't move my hand.  
Sherlock said nothing. Just smiled – in that infuriating way that stops my tongue every time. Then his eyes were closed.  
I sighed softly, a deep, satisfying warmth spreading through me as I closed my eyes, my own smile refusing to fade even as I drifted off to sleep.

...

Sherlock was up before me in the morning, and I found myself sliding over to his side of the bed slightly before getting up, the now-familiar scent of him rising faintly from his pillow.

When I came into the front room, Sherlock was on the phone. The level and pace of his speech told me instantly that it was Lestrade on the other end; Sherlock always uses an official tone of voice with him that he never uses with anyone else. A sort of respect for the institution, really. Lestrade should be glad he offers him even this slight courtesy – well, sometimes – it proves that Sherlock isn't so arrogant that he sees himself as above the law, knows that Lestrade and his kind are vital in ensuring that the sort of people he tracks down aren't allowed to keep up their anarchic rampages for long. Without the legal system, Sherlock would basically just be flagging up psychopaths for the fun of it; none of us would be left any safer for it.  
Even though he was using a formal tone with Lestrade, it was pretty clear after a few seconds that he was starting to lose his patience.

"_Yes – _that's what I said. I _know _you've already looked, but you can't have exhausted _all _the leads so early on? Are you sure you're looking properly?" A garbled shout came from the other end of the phone; Sherlock took it away from his ear, smiled mischievously at me in a way that made my elbows tingle.  
"_Alright, _alright. I promise: by this afternoon, we will all be a little wiser." Lestrade's voice quietened down and Sherlock nodded slowly, as if the inspector could see him. Then Lestrade must've said something that Sherlock hadn't prepared himself for, because he suddenly straightened and bit his lower lip.  
"Oh, _us? _Well, we..." I bit back my laughter, wondering if Sherlock was having sex-flashbacks while he spoke to this representative of Scotland Yard on the phone.  
"We're going to follow up a line of enquiry of our own, today. _No, _I can't...Because, Lestrade, during a covert operation, _it-wouldn't-look-very-good-if-the-police-turned-up, would it?_"  
Sherlock was definitely losing his cool now, the pitch of his voice a little too high, no space for breath between his words. I drew up beside him, touching his elbow lightly as a reminder of who he was talking to. He looked at me, flashed a half-smile, and spoke again to the inspector in a much calmer tone.  
"I'll text you. Yes, at a sociable hour. No, not in my usual cryptic riddle-me mumbo-jumbo. Fine." He pressed the 'end call' button, and then drew the phone mouthpiece as close to his mouth as he could and shouted, "_YOU BORING ARSE!" _so loud that I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Throwing the phone onto an empty armchair, Sherlock wheeled round slowly to look at me. I wondered if he even knew how teasing it was for me to be evaluated from head to foot by him – even if I was still in my pyjamas, with a bad case of bed hair.

"Good, you slept well." He nodded to himself – no need to ask me, obviously.  
"It's going to be quite a busy day today, I feel – especially now that Lestrade's all... rankled. Can't have him traipsing all over London on false leads, while we're sitting here Googling _Black Harts._" He shrugged with his mouth, patted me gently on the shoulder, and padded past me to the kitchen, switching on the kettle.

Resisting the urge, for now, to ask him what we were actually going to be doing today, I let my mind wander to much more pleasant territory: back to our activities of the day before. No one would know what had happened between us from the state of the room, but I could still _sense _it – hear it, if I cast my mind back carefully enough. My crotch throbbed lightly in my pyjama bottoms, and I cleared my throat, smiling absent-mindedly at Sherlock's back while he poured two mugs of tea.

"Out with it."

"What?" I snapped from my daydreaming. Sherlock still had his back to me.

"Whatever's running through your mind. _Do _share." He turned to face me, carrying the tea, a _very_ small and subversive smile on his lips.

I cleared my throat again, and shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my vocal chords frozen until Sherlock came up close in front of me and pressed the warm mug into my hands. Brought into such close contact with _that _smile, like he was the conspirator in some indecent little game that I'd unintentionally started, I smiled back nervously, taking a small sip from the steaming cup before I realised that I had no choice but to answer.

"I was – just thinking about – _yesterday,_" I stuttered, putting emphasis on the last word as if that saved me from elaborating.

Sherlock nodded swiftly once, and raised his eyebrows silently, encouraging me to continue. Our bodies were familiarly close, and I absently wondered just how much further I would have to lean until our chests touched.

"Well – you know – it -" I remembered that I'm absolutely terrible at being seductive when I talk about things like this, and that Sherlock's intense study of my reply put way too much pressure on me to say something amazingly witty. I would have to dodge the subject, I decided. In place of a dazzling reply, I sneaked out a hand to rest on Sherlock's waist. "- it's just a good job Mrs Hudson wasn't around..."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide, and then he wrinkled his nose, as if he hadn't thought of it and now I'd given him the grimmest mental image. Then he gave a small snort of laughter and his mouth spread wide in a debilitating smile. My mouth twisted in silent amusement, before I started laughing in surprise at myself. I hadn't thought about it, either, until that moment – and the thought was horrific…mortifying…hilarious. I had a vision of Mrs H shrieking and packets of broken custard creams strewn all over the floor.

We were both shaking our heads and laughing, mystified, when the door went downstairs and, lo and behold, the lady herself walked in. Luckily, we weren't as close to each other when she entered the room, but we looked at one another, wide-eyed with the warped coincidence, and she must've known that something wasn't quite right.

"Hello, loves," she said in her usual cheery manner, but her smile was slightly perplexed.  
"Not dressed yet? That's not like you, John dear." She didn't wait for my attempt at an excuse, just sidled past the two of us into the kitchen, her arms full of shopping.  
She dumped the plastic bags on the dining table, knocking over a glass vial of Sherlock's and making him wince – but he kept quiet. Then she took a quick look around the room, clucking her tongue.  
"You boys, honestly. I thought you were going to get him into tidying up, John! It doesn't take much for the place to start looking like a pigsty, you know." She looked at us both from under her eyebrows, like a disappointed headmistress. I could sense Sherlock's inner smile without looking at him.

"We'll get the place looking spotless again in no time, Mrs H, don't you worry," I reassured her, with what I hoped was a kind smile. I was actually finding it difficult to look her in the eye.

She gave me a sweet smile in return, apparently forgiving my housekeeping faults, for now. Then she went back to the table and picked up a matt plastic suit bag, which she waved gently at me.

"I picked up your dry-cleaning, lovey. I'll pop it in your room, that alright?"

"Great, Mrs H, you're a star."

The reply was out of my mouth before the stab of realisation hit me – she hadn't seen the state of my room, yet. I darted a wary look at Sherlock, but he just closed his eyes and gave a solemn nod – _'Might as well get it out of the way,' _I guessed he was saying.

Mrs Hudson bustled towards the landing with my dry cleaning, talking to me over her shoulder as she passed, "Really, John love, I can't make a habit of this. I'm not your skivvy." She gave me the head teacher glance again at the door, and I smiled indulgently.  
"Sherlock gets his _personally delivered, _you know." she put emphasis on the two words, raising her eyebrows in a _'La-di-da isn't he posh?' _sort of way.

"No...I didn't know," I replied, exaggerating my surprise because I knew Sherlock gets embarrassed by stuff like this. Like the clothes-folding thing. I looked over at him deliberately, but he'd moved to his favourite armchair while we were talking and was now almost definitely pretending to read the _Daily Mail_. He didn't acknowledge either of us.

Mrs Hudson smiled and shook her head in amusement, before turning and heading off down the landing to my room. I waited until she was out of earshot before I spoke again, my smile wide as I watched Sherlock's nonplussed expression.

"Then again, I shouldn't really expect anything else from a _public school toff..._"My voice was soft, the jibe meant to be teasing rather than malicious. Sherlock can't help preferring a few high-born creature comforts, bless him.

He pursed his lips, folded down the paper and turned to me, opening his mouth to reply. Unfortunately for him, his comeback was cut off by a disgusted shriek from down the corridor.  
We both smiled at each other in unison, before Sherlock leapt from his seat and jogged towards my room, his expression displaying a believable show of concern. I followed at a brisk walk, hanging back slightly because I was worried my amusement at the whole thing would give me away.  
Mrs Hudson was standing in the doorway to my room, her hand still poised from pushing the door open, her jaw hanging slightly and her brow furrowed in confusion. As Sherlock came up beside her, she turned to him with a baffled expression. He looked at her wordlessly, and then peered into the room, as if seeing it for the first time. I was pretty impressed; he even managed a small gasp of surprise.

"Ugh, oh no..." he muttered, clucking his tongue in a disapproving way.

"I – I don't understand it..." Mrs Hudson stammered, "I mean, this place isn't exactly a penthouse suite on the Thames, but I'm _sure _I only had the damp proofing surveyed six months ago." She fretted with the hem of her jumper, before peering round Sherlock to look sympathetically at me, "John, I'm sosorry. That's _mildew, _love. You can't sleep in there. I'll have to get the builders in to have a good look at it."

I tried my best to nod in a convincingly understanding way. She seemed to believe it, "No problem. I didn't want to cause any trouble, but..." I broke off, leaning in front of Sherlock to see in there myself. Hadn't seen it at all in the twelve plus hours since he administered the spores – I wasn't prepared for the sight of it.

Three separate spots on the wall were now coated in large, dull, blackish-grey stains, clouded round the edges with steadily-spreading damp patches. My room now resembled something like the basement of the _Black Hart_ – smelt bloody awful too. I was briefly panicked by thought that my walls looked like they were _crawling_, and my skin started to prickle. Thank goodness Sherlock moved my stuff out the day before.

"...it does look pretty disgusting, doesn't it?" I added, a little limply.

"Not just disgusting, dangerous," Sherlock chimed in, looking at Mrs Hudson in a way that seemed to imply a shared opinion of theirs that I didn't have a clue about too many things.  
"Prolonged exposure to mould spores can draw too much fluid into the lungs – leading to respiratory problems, inflamed asthmatic symptoms, bronchitis..." He waved his arm all-encompassingly and gave me a pointed stare, "You're a medical man, John; surely the implications were apparent to you."

I narrowed my eyes at him with a half-smirk.

Mrs Hudson spoke up, "He's right, dear, you really mustn't sleep in there. Not until I've got it all cleaned and re-wallpapered. But where will you sleep in the meantime? That sofa in the living room's terribly small..."

"He can sleep in my room, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock offered, in that slow, careful tone of voice that made him sound like he's in the middle of a thought when, actually, he's already decided what he's going to say minutes (if not hours, days...) before.  
I looked at him, wide-eyed. So did Mrs Hudson.

"_Your _room, Sherlock?" She was understandably puzzled.

"Yes..."Sherlock gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if talking with someone hard of hearing.

Mrs Hudson peered at him – she looked as if she was trying to find some kind of joke or sarcasm in the suggestion, but couldn't. Then she turned to me, probably assuming that he was just having a brief, uncharacteristic attack of generosity, "Yes, that sounds like the best idea. I can let you borrow my folding bed, if you like, John? Unless..." She let the implication hang in the air, and I felt my eyes popping out on stalks.

"-No, _no_, the folding bed will be perfect – thanks." I spluttered, in a way that forced Sherlock to hide a smile behind his hand. Mrs H smiled apologetically, and was none the wiser.

...

At lunchtime, after we'd made the right excuses for our sleeping arrangements, Sherlock and I set off out on the day's investigations. He was being as enigmatic with me as he'd been with Lestrade – I had no idea where we were going, or why we were going there, or even if Sherlock had the slightest idea how to handle the case. After all, to an everyday person of average intelligence like me, it looked like there was absolutely nothing to work with.  
Sherlock hailed down a cab, and the driver turned around as we climbed in, waiting to be told where he should be going, only to be confronted with two blank faces. I glanced sideways at Sherlock, hoping to god that he wouldn't embarrass me with some strange taxi experiment – like _Let's See How Long We Can Stay Silent Before the Cabbie Has a Fit._

"...Where to, gents?" he prompted, aiming the question more at Sherlock than me because I was too busy frowning intensely at him.

Sherlock brought his knuckle to his lips, and I rolled my eyes. "Tell you what," he said suddenly, leaping forward slightly in his seat, his eyes glinting like an excited puppy, "Why don't you just – _drive around _a bit – and when you get to where we want to go...I'll tell you."

The cabbie snorted with laughter – he must've thought Sherlock was joking. Then his face fell, "...Are you sure, mate? You could run up a pretty hefty fare like that..."

Sherlock made a short humming sound. "Quite. Well, we'll worry about that later. Off you go." He gestured onward with his eyebrows.

The cabbie muttered something under his breath, but obliged.  
I shook my head, bewildered. Watching Sherlock for the first five minutes or so of the journey, I couldn't see even a hint of irony or mischief in his expression. He kept me in the dark still; didn't say a word.  
After driving around for another twenty minutes – in which the cabbie constantly darted uncertain glances at Sherlock through the rear-view mirror, but the detective kept his eyes closed and his expression blank – I started to get impatient, and half-turned towards him, trying to keep my voice level.

"So – you're not going to tell me."

One eye opened. "Sorry – what?"

I cleared my throat, counted slowly to five. "Don't be daft, Sherlock. This is pointless. There are better things we could be doing with our time, right now, than taking a magical mystery tour around the city."

He turned to face me, eyebrows raised curiously, "Oh, really? Like what?"

"Erm – well – I don't know – but –" I sighed.

"Honestly, John, if you have _any _suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them."

"_I don't know!" _I snapped, a bit too loudly. "You haven't told me _anything, _have you?What your plan is, what your theories are, if you suspect anyone – I'm starting to..." I paused, cautious about voicing my reservations, "I'm starting to think that you're making it all up as you go along. If you don't have any leads, _just admit it! _No one will think any less of you – it's a really tough case..." I felt my skin flush, feeling guilty for doubting Sherlock as soon as I'd closed my mouth, and struggling to disguise it.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly; I thought he'd turn away from me and sulk, but he didn't. With his eyes still fixed on me (in a way that made me want to fidget uncomfortably) he spoke to the cabbie, "You can stop here, please. 'Mate'_._"

We got out, and I went to stand beside Sherlock on the pavement. He told the cabbie through the window to wait for us, which must've made the man think that all his Christmases had come at once, and tore off down the road, leaving me to jog helplessly behind.  
I pulled up beside him, resisting the urge to grab him and shake some sense into him. He was walking with a purpose, eyes fixed ahead, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. I took the time to get my bearings and realised we were in Covent Garden.

"Look – I'm sorry if I –"I started to say, my breathing slightly shallow from the speed-walking.

"I'm not cross with you, John," Sherlock replied calmly. "You're perfectly justified in your reservations. But I have to entreat you to trust me, on this occasion, without any knowledge of the facts. My reasons will soon become clear to you – but, for now –" He looked around him, seemingly for the first time, "you'll just – have to –"He was wheeling round to look in different directions now, sort of wildly, still moving down the street, and I had to dodge him as he spun this way and that, "accept that – I'm keeping my cards close to my chest."  
He stopped suddenly; I almost tripped over one of his long legs. Then he turned to look back the way we'd come, pressed his tongue to his top lip like a child concentrating on finger-painting, and clapped his hands together.  
"Interesting. Hm. Okay well I think I've got everything I need..." He turned to look at me, an odd kind of steely glint in his eye, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," I sighed, following him like a reluctant shadow as he set off back towards the waiting taxi.

This turned out to be pattern of the next four hours; Sherlock sending the cabbie off in any direction he fancied, telling him to stop after about half an hour, striding off down the road until he'd reached a certain spot, then walking back again. My feet were aching by the end of it all, and we'd racked up a taxi fare frighteningly close to four figures.  
I still couldn't see the sense behind it all, and Sherlock still didn't look too certain of anything, but I resigned myself to trusting him, as I always did, and always will. Occasionally, he would aim a warm smile in my direction, or slow down a bit to wait for me to catch up with him. Once, he even locked his fingers round my arm before we walked back to the cab; but I suspected it was accidental. He hardly spoke a word, while my brain was virtually splitting at the seams with unanswered questions.  
Eventually, he must've gotten bored with the arrangement, or something, because he let the cabbie drop us off for the last time, five minutes or so from Baker Street. I realised where we were with a small smile: outside our favourite Chinese. Sherlock paid the extortionate fare in cash (_How did he have the right amount?_), giving the cabbie a tip for his trouble, and turned to me once the emphatically beaming driver had sped away.

"How exhilarating." He was smiling almost as widely as the cabbie, looking at me like an enthusiastic small child.

"I'll take your word for it," I replied, not sulking, just smiling, mystified, at him.

"Hungry?" he asked, as if there would be any question. I nodded eagerly, and he laughed. "Will you treat? I've just spent up." He smiled guiltily, and then I was the one laughing.

"C'mon – idiot." I patted him gently on the back as we walked through the door.

...

Back at the flat, eating our dim-sum on trays in front of _The Weakest Link _(Sherlock kept shouting that it was obvious who was and wasn't going to 'Bank' – judging by the colour of their shirt and the parting of their hair), he suddenly turned to me, crossing one leg under him, finally deciding to unveil his plan.

"So, John, what do _you _think we gained from today?"

"Apart from a couple of blisters and working off the calories from breakfast?" I asked, making Sherlock chuckle. "Sorry, I don't see any gain. You'll have to tell me what the point of it all was."

"There wasn't any point."

I choked on a water chestnut. "Seriously? None at all?" I tried to keep my voice level, but I could feel my bed temper building up in me again.

"Well – not in any of the destinations, rather the journey itself." Sherlock waved his chopsticks around, clearly enjoying my baffled reaction. "But, you know, the car that followed us around all day – that was pretty interesting. I was most curious to see how long _that _would last."

"_Shit_ – really? I didn't see anyone." I forgot how exasperated I was, and felt a cold sheet of panic fall over me. How could I not have noticed that?

"Mm. Don't worry – they tailed off when we started getting close to Baker Street again – obviously must know where we live."

"Oh yeah, _obviously_. Well that's reassuring," I said sarcastically. "Did you see who was in the car? Did they follow us on foot?"

"Unsurprisingly, no. Clearly someone who doesn't like being seen in public."

"And someone who has a hell of a lot of time on their hands, following a couple of blokes in a taxi for four hours." I tried to joke, but somehow it didn't feel funny. Whoever this person was _knew where we lived. _"Do you think it's them? The Salter killer?"I tried to sound conversational; not as anxious as I felt.

"I'm...ninety-six percent sure," he answered, as if he had a pie-chart in his head.

...

Lestrade called a couple of hours later, predictably without any leads, despite having visited three separate divorce courts, two lap dance clubs and a burlesque bar, but eager to hear what Sherlock had found.

"Well, John and I are being followed," Sherlock revealed, sounding perversely upbeat about the whole thing. Lestrade's voice became more animated. "No, no, I don't know who it was. Registration number? Erm..." He pressed his fingers to his temple, and then recited it, "I think you'll find that's a hire car though, or you may find its burnt-out carcass somewhere on the M25."He nodded slowly, as if Lestrade could see him, "Yes, ninety-six percent sure. No, I didn't. No, John didn't. Yes – I know, I hoped I'd have more to work with, but...Hmm. Well, we're going out again tomorrow. If they follow us again, I'll try and trip them up somehow. Yep – I'll text you if I do. You might as well keep a car on standby, just in case."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. _Going out again? _It wasn't exactly unexpected, but I worried if we'd be trying our luck too much, tempting the killer to follow us again, without some kind of back-up. One wrong move and we could end up down some grimy side street, no witnesses, and the killer could decide to take his chances and corner us there and then. I wondered if Sherlock was underestimating this killer, just because (as callous as it sounds) they'd only murdered once, and in a comparatively unimaginative way. It didn't make him/her any less dangerous, any less volatile, any less likely to be fatally insane. When Sherlock had hung up the call, I opened my mouth to say this, but he interrupted.

"Don't worry, John, I won't make any stupid decisions. You must know that I don't underestimate _anyone_." His stare was quite burning, and I couldn't argue.

"So you don't have _any _other theories then? Just that whoever it is will probably follow us again when we go out tomorrow?"

"Mm, that's pretty much it. Except that I'm now beginning to suspect that the killer is male, lives locally, has followed us at least once before - oh, and has a slight complex about his height."

"Really?" I prompted, knowing he would be dying to go on.

"Yes. Driving a BMW E70 round London? Not a common choice. Far more economical, and sensible, to drive a compact city-car around these gridlocked streets. Implies definite over-compensation for a perceived physical deficit - height being the most common option. He must have followed us before, because he pre-empted the time we would leave the flat this afternoon and was ready to follow us immediately. He had time to get here at least an hour before rush hour, in order to find a parking spot on Baker Street, so he must live locally. And male: partly due to popular statistics; partly because a woman committing a revenge murder on an ex-lover would be most likely to do it spontaneously in the height of rage, giving little thought to the poetic irony of the location. Our killer is male then, and the choice of the _Black Hart _doesn't seem to be a reflection of Salter's infidelity or lack of romantic commitment. Otherwise, Lestrade would probably have had quite a bit more to report."

I smiled, despite the heavy feeling dragging at my ribs, "Well done, Sherlock. Brilliant."

He smiled vaguely, "You were right John. It _is _a tough case. I'm hoping things will be a little clearer tomorrow, but – well, we'll have to prepare ourselves for the possibility that we might achieve nothing. Or, that we'll achieve _something, _but..."He sighed, and walked over to me, placed his hand tentatively on my shoulder, "There's always going to be risk involved – you know that, don't you?"

I nodded, smiling weakly. It wasn't news to me – Hell, I'd helped out in enough cases with Sherlock to know full well that risk was inevitable. It always reassured me, at times like this, that Sherlock seemed to have a full grasp on what was happening; was always one step ahead of the killer, and therefore that little bit safer from harm. Except that, in each of our most important cases, he's made just _one _foolish mistake – usually near the very end of the case - when he gets too impulsive, too eager, too impatient, and forgets his own safety, and everyone else's, because the end's so near he can _touch it _and any stopping to think would only slow him down. Three distinct images entered my mind: Sherlock, holding up a small pink pill to his mouth; me, having a black bag thrown over my head; and Sherlock, pointing his gun at Jim Moriarty, his body illuminated with half a dozen rifle laser-sights.  
I shuddered slightly; it must've travelled through me into Sherlock, whose hand was still on my shoulder, because he shifted a bit, and his forehead wrinkled uneasily.

"I'm fine." I knew there wasn't anything else he could say to justify himself, and I didn't want him to feel like he had to. My worries for his safety didn't affect my enthusiasm for the investigation. After all, I 'm happy to be there with him, chasing criminals and putting them to rights. It's what I live and breathe for, now, almost as much as he does. And I never thought I'd say it, never thought there'd be a replacement - but the military doesn't even compare. But I don't think I'd feel half as strongly about it if it wasn't _Sherlock_ I was doing it with. After all, it's him that makes it infectious; him that made it his life's work, before he even knew he would be accepted, by anyone. And, well, I get to _watch_ him all I want – even touch him, if the moment's right.  
I decided to tell him.  
"I'm not getting cold feet. I _live _for this. It's what drives me, I'm addicted to it. I just want you to be careful. You know - with you...I like – it's good, to be with you." I knew my face was red, and couldn't look him in the eye.

Sherlock didn't move, but he was studying me carefully, and I felt a close heat emanating from him. The tension between us grew noticeably; I knew he wanted to say something, but was struggling.

"It's – good – to be with you too, John," he said eventually. I know we both were saying less than we felt, and that there was a double-meaning in our words that neither of us wanted to be the first to mention. All I could focus on was the way that Sherlock's warm breath was hitting the side of my face gently, and that his body loomed over me like a shadow, his presence somehow _heavy, close_…_unbearably_ close...

I turned to look at him with a specific intention in mind, but he beat me to it. All too quickly his face was covering mine, his lips were against mine clumsily, his tongue pressing into the corner of my mouth in his rush to kiss me. He pulled away, wrinkling his nose, and attacked my mouth again, this time at a more considered angle. Our lips met comfortably, the contact now stomach-warmingly familiar, and we were smiling into each other, our bodies coming together with a slow, restful easiness. I opened my mouth almost instinctively, letting his tongue inside, and the taste of him filled all my senses, stirred that part of me that thrills whenever Sherlock touches me unintentionally, or smiles at me in a certain way. I took hold of his hair gently in both hands, running my fingers slowly back over his head, and I felt his reassuring grip against my shoulder blades.

"Ah...I crave this...I crave you..." I murmured against his lips, lust freeing me from inhibitions. "I think you're like a drug to me, Sherlock Holmes..."

Sherlock laughed against my mouth, though the laugh turned into a moan, at the end. "You know, instead of having patch-problems, I'm starting to have John-problems..."

I kissed him deeply, in spite of being described to as an alternative to the nicotine patch, "And how severe is your current John-problem?" I asked, nipping his lower lip gently between my teeth.

"Unhh... quite – _quite _severe." His voice was starting to sound slightly strangled; I knew he was trying to keep his self-control, "I don't think I'll be able to solve this one without at least an hour of your...time..."

I made a noise of appreciation in the back of my throat, before slipping my hands between us and snaking the shirt off his back. I could feel the goose bumps spreading over Sherlock's skin as the cool air hit his chest, and moved my hands over him to try and create a warm friction. He moved quickly to pull my grey jumper off over my head, only breaking the rhythm of his kisses to inch the fabric past my mouth. I fought to find his bare skin with mine as quickly as I could, desperate to feel the smooth, hard planes of muscle in his chest and stomach. There was a small trail of sweat down the front of his body, and I moved forward to run my tongue along it, unusually confident in my actions. Sherlock tensed, and I heard the air being dragged in through his mouth as he felt my tongue in the crease of his chest. This only spurred me on; I moved my mouth to each of his nipples in turn, giving them brief flickers with my tongue in a way that I knew he would enjoy. In his usual way, Sherlock was visibly and audibly curious about this new sensation, humming in an aroused but thoughtful way - as if he was adding this feeling to a catalogue of similar ones already stored in his brain. Then started to trail determined kisses down his stomach, in the direction of his waistband, and he stopped me with a decisive grip and directed me hastily to the sofa.  
We landed in a tangle of fumbling limbs, struggling slightly to find a comfortable position in such limited space, until eventually, our bodies fell perfectly into line, and our movements were a lot more deliberate. My thoughts were thrown into chaos; the surrounding world was a hot, heavy, misty blur...

In the nights that followed, I think Sherlock was starting to get used to me sharing his bedroom. We didn't go to bed to fuck; I think he was keen to establish the boundary between sleep-hours and sex-hours, and that hasn't bothered me. I can only respect the amount of rest that his marvellous mind needs to function at its amazing capacity. But he was slowly starting to oblige my physical and emotional needs. That night, he let me rest my arm across his stomach while we slept. The night after: I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder. And after that: shockingly, he put his hand on top of mine when I laid it on his chest. Each night we were closer – and I felt it, beyond just the way we were sleeping. He'd started letting me in.

But he still hadn't said goodnight.

Until later,  
Yours,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Gah! It's taken so long, I can only apologise…and now I'm so sad it's finished! Really loved writing this one, clearing up (some of) the loose ends, and building up to a dramatic climax (no pun intended…well maybe!).  
Obviously, I'm not going to finish the Saga of Sherlock/John here – as soon as I come up with some new ideas I'll start a new story. It's far too much fun writing about them to stop now!  
I'd really appreciate some constructive feedback with this one – mysterypoet66 kindly gave me advice about keeping John in-character, and I've tried to improve the narrative style with this chapter to make it more convincingly Freeman!Watson. I'm also going to go back over old chapters when I can to give them a bit of tweaking – hopefully it'll be an improvement.  
Thanks so much for sticking with this! I'm gratefully indebted to each and every one of you._

_Warning: Scenes of a non-con nature.  
EDIT: Sequel up now! 'The Disappearance of an Heiress'_

…

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

I'd wanted to write down all the details of _The Case of the Black Hart _last time – just _get them out of my head _and let it all lie; unfortunately, there aren't enough free hours in the day – not at the moment, anyway. It would have helped me – removed the urge to over-analyse what happened by putting it all on the page and out of my brain, like I do in my public blog – as it is, the events have still been hurtling around my memory, assaulting me at the worst possible moments. It's therapeutic, writing down my experiences, more than I'd ever realised it would be; and of course, here, I can be completely honest. No details omitted. I can express my innermost feelings - sometimes, before I've even admitted them to _myself -_ on these pages.

But I've also wanted, _so badly_, to discuss these things with Sherlock; to find out his thoughts on the past couple of weeks, mostly beyond the events of the case. I know he's read this journal at least once, and though it might be a small blessing that he hasn't been near my laptop for days, it means that he hasn't shown any sign of having read these latest entries.  
Sherlock, if you read this, please talk to me about...things. I'll never ask you face to face.

We went on with our investigations for several days, usually just going about normal (by Sherlock's definition), everyday things and patiently observing – trying to establish whether our shadow had decided to follow us again. The day after our taxi-trail, we weren't followed at all – by car, or on foot. So Sherlock avoided the dreaded _Boredom _by visiting Lestrade at Scotland Yard and listening to his tedious reports about the various things he'd seen and heard while carrying out the tasks Sherlock had recommended to him. The police in a few handpicked northern counties had been contacted, in case any Salters had come to their attention following Sherlock's restaurant lead; and Lestrade and his team had been visiting yet more seedy clubs and the like in the immediate London area. Sherlock actually seemed surprised when it turned out Henry Salter _had _visited a strip club in Camden – though it had been several months before his murder and the club owner only vaguely recognised him from a photo because his friend had gotten ridiculously drunk and had had to be ushered out. None of the women working there had remembered him, and as far as anyone could say for sure, he'd only ever been once. Lestrade was happy though; he'd gotten it into his head that, because we were being followed, Salter's murderer must have been a lover – according to him, only a woman would come up with a death as poetic as the _Black Hart, _and women are notorious stalkers.._._charming man, at times.  
I _knew _Sherlock believed he was one-hundred per cent wrong, but he never said a word. Just nodded along and changed the subject as swiftly as possible.

So while Lestrade had set off on this new tangent – trying to prove, against Sherlock's advice, that Salter _did _in fact have a known lover, and that she was following us around London in a silver BMW E70 – we continued to assume that the _male _killer, whoever he was, knew that we were aware of him, and was only out of sight at that moment because he was formulating a plot to put us out of his way.  
I should have been worried. Maybe I was – but not enough.

Two days after we'd first seen the killer (or at least their car), Sherlock decided that we ought to try again – in case the killer had sent out someone else to do his legwork while he constructed his next plan of action.

There was a strange atmosphere between us, that morning. I couldn't tell what Sherlock was feeling – I never can, really – but there seemed to be a shared understanding between us that we were nearing the end. It would only be a matter of hours before that vital detail would fall into place and the following hours would be a blood-pounding adrenaline blur as we started to chase down our suspect. Knowing this, and somehow incredibly aware of just how much things had changed between us, I felt that I really ought to seize these last few moments of blessed ignorance and uncertainty; the eye of the storm. Yet again, I wanted to turn to Sherlock for reassurance, and yet again, I was too much of a coward to ask for it.  
My hand was somehow attached to his arm as we reached the front door; there were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted him to know how excited I was, how eager I was for us to succeed, how much I was looking forward to being able to watch him, how scared I was that he might make one of his rash mistakes and end up in another brush with death, how I would be so concerned with his actions that I would completely forget about my own, how I had the strongest urge to hold him as tightly as I could, just then, and tell him to be careful.

I said nothing, of course. But as Sherlock paused and turned to look at me, I leant upwards slightly and kissed him carefully on the lips. It was enough, to calm my overactive mind. Sherlock smiled vaguely back at me, his expression slightly quizzical, and bit down gently on his lower lip. I could see the question on the tip of his tongue, but he stayed silent – just held out his arm for me to pass through the front door ahead of him, before wheeling round and locking it behind him.

I tried to get Sherlock to divulge some more of his deductions on the taxi journey, but he was being purposefully vague and unreadable – sometimes, I think he does it just to annoy me. He wouldn't even let me look through the back window to see if the BMW was following us; said we couldn't _both_ look. When I asked him why I couldn't look _instead _of him, he just laughed. I tried my hardest not to sulk, since I'd only been thinking how concerned I was for him a few minutes before. And the way he placed his hand decisively on my thigh was oddly effective at keeping my attention from wandering.  
We stopped in Kensington, just for five minutes; long enough for Sherlock to hop out of the taxi, have a quick look around, and, seeing no one, direct us back to Baker Street.

"Are you sure?" I asked him, trying and failing to mask how sceptical I was, "Maybe he won't get someone to follow us on foot this time – he didn't before - maybe he's just gotten better at following us without being seen? Isn't it a bit of a risk to go back so soon?" I wondered if this no-show would put the investigations back another day; the thought was even more of a disappointment than I would've expected.

"When am I _not _sure about these sorts of decisions, John?" he answered, in typically self-assured style. "We _have _to get back to Baker Street." And then I saw something in his eyes that made a lump catch in my throat.

"...What is it? _Sherlock?_" I raised my voice slightly; he'd gone into a sort of trance, his mind working at a breakneck pace, and something infectious about him passed harshly into me.

"...I'm not sure..." he answered softly, and for some reason my stomach flipped; he _wasn't _being ironic.

The cab pulled up outside the flat, and Sherlock paid the cabbie while I unlocked the front door. He followed me up the stairs; I could almost hear his breathing in the tense atmosphere we'd brought home with us. I tried to shrug it off as I opened the door to 221b, put on a show of indifference that I wasn't at all feeling – Mrs Hudson had said she would get the cleaners in to sort out my room today and I didn't want her to worry unnecessarily (sometimes, I think we're more like unruly offspring to her than her tenants).

"Are you in, Mrs H?" I called as I walked into the flat; my voice a little forced, looking back at Sherlock's blank face with my eyebrows raised, as if to say 'hold off for a while'.

"Hmm?" the soft-sounding query came from the kitchen.

"We're back a little early – did the cleaners manage to - ?" I stopped dead as I rounded the corner, frozen in the act of removing my jacket so that one sleeve hung like a broken wing from my back.

Mrs Hudson was sitting at the kitchen table, as if she'd just made a cup of tea and was having a break. But her arms were bound behind the back of the chair and her mouth was gagged. There was a livid looking shadow developing underneath one of her eyes, which were both pink from crying. As her eyes met mine she began to weep again; I felt suddenly nauseous.  
In a second I started to rush forward to help her, but time had seemed to take a dragging pace, as if something heavy had been strapped to my back. In a sort of underwater blur, I felt myself take a step, and then the firm grip of Sherlock on my arm. I paused, briefly, saw Mrs Hudson shaking her head emphatically, her eyes wide and shining with fear. Then Sherlock's body beside me tensed, and before I could turn to look at him there was an arm I didn't know around my neck and a pad with something that smelt suspiciously of chloroform was pressed stiflingly against my nose and mouth. I briefly had time to register that familiar flurry of panic before everything began to wind down, and clouds of black began to blossom behind my eyelids…

…

The idea of being kidnapped wasn't a foreign one to me; I know at least a dozen ex-army comrades who have either experienced it themselves or been involved with the capturing of hostages from the other side. In the time I've known Sherlock Holmes, I've also been kidnapped myself – twice (three times if you count my impromptu first meeting with Mycroft). But to wake up in a darkened room and know that with something as pathetic as an over-the-counter mixture someone had managed to render me completely powerless was damaging to my soldier's ego.

I wasn't myself when I first came to; thoughts that now seem common sense only came to me in drawn-out stages, far too slowly for me to take any form of decisive action.  
My first thought was that it must be morning, since it felt like I'd been asleep and dreaming for quite some time. My eyes opened painfully and heavily, and I was confronted with the view of a brick wall, which reminded me violently that I wasn't at home; that I seemed to be in some sort of abandoned building, due to the state of the room and the boarded windows. This in turn triggered the memory of being attacked and drugged with chloroform and then my blood flushed livid with panic as I remembered Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and the fact that a known murderer of one had been keeping track of our whereabouts for several days.  
Until this point, I hadn't tried to move. My head hung limply, my neck ached, and when I finally mustered the willpower needed to attempt movement, I found that several parts of me were bound tightly to the chair I quickly realised I was sitting on. I tried my arms: no luck – wrists bound behind the back of the chair. Legs: unfortunately, no luck either – these were taped up by the ankles, I could see blearily. And a tight kind of friction seized my stomach when I tried to shift; I had been tied to the chair with rope, as well. This guy was certainly thorough.  
All I could see were the three walls of the room immediately surrounding me; I wasn't facing anything that would serve the purpose of an exit, besides the boarded windows, and from what I could see, the room was completely empty. But something in my steadily-waking senses told me I wasn't alone. The more I became accustomed to the compromised state I was in, the more I became aware of certain important factors I should've noticed a lot sooner. First, the sound of soft, laboured breathing; second, the warmth and pressure of someone's back pressed into mine; and third, a sort of soft, musky scent that I could only ever identify with one person and that brought back a wave of vivid, unspeakably wonderful memories…

I instantly wondered why he hadn't spoken sooner, reassured me that he was OK and, informed me of at least four plans of escape. Shit - maybe there was something wrong? I tried desperately not to overreact, forcing back images of an unconscious Sherlock covered in injuries. _'Oh God, I'm out of my depth,' _I thought – not for the first time.  
When I tried to speak, to get his attention, the words emerged in a weak croak, and I winced at the burning sensation the chloroform had left in my throat. At the sound of this, the body behind me stirred; if it were possible, I would've been knocked backwards by the intensity of my relief.  
Sherlock must have been tied like me, because all I felt was the tensing of the muscles around his shoulder blades, and a slight bump as he leant his head back against mine. I tried to speak again, but Sherlock physically knocked his skull against mine, and I felt the motion of him shaking his head vigorously. '_Stay quiet?'_ Why? Was there someone in the room with us? Sherlock must've been facing the door; I realised he was warning me about something, and when I heard the footsteps approaching I finally realised that it would benefit us both to pretend that we hadn't come round from the chloroform yet.

I closed my eyes, bowed my head a little, and in seconds, the door behind me creaked open. I felt the small tremors from Sherlock's body as he tried to compose himself. Who _was _this man? He must have been some sort of monster, if Sherlock was finding it so difficult to keep himself under control. His footsteps echoed quietly, yet somehow deafeningly, around the room, and I managed to stop my hyperactive mind from running away with itself by listing the number of ways I'd been trained to free myself from situations like this. One of them involved dislocating my shoulder, and I tried not to shudder at the thought of it, my mouth tangy with the recollection of dozens of similar injuries I'd already experienced.  
The footsteps stopped somewhere to my left; I heard soft breathing, and then a sudden burst of inappropriate laughter. The sound was somehow familiar, and the only thought that my mind could summon up to help me remember was the fact that _most murderers do not laugh._

"Good God, look at the two of you. Sleeping like babies…erm, _don't think so!" _

The last was an almost childlike sing-song, and I tried to stifle my uncomfortable knee-jerk reaction as the familiar voice finally registered itself.

"Chloroform doesn't knock out an adult male for _that _long. Come on, as if I would be _stupid _enough not to time it! _WAKEY WAKEY! _I've been so _dying _to have a chat with you!"

Sherlock didn't move. I didn't know what to do. If I opened my eyes, I wouldn't be surprised by what I saw: Jim Moriarty, no less, probably getting irate and dancing around like a moron because we were both ignoring him. But I didn't want to accept it, somehow. Moriarty never got his hands dirty like this; why would he associate himself directly with something as petty as a kidnapping? What could he possibly want with us – why would he have initiated a case as seemingly pedestrian (by his standards) as _The Black Hart_? Something wasn't right, and I realised: Sherlock hadn't moved because he wasn't ready, either. He was thinking. Deducing. Preparing himself for a fairly-matched battle of wits.

"Sherlock, Sherlock…" The voice was soothing, disgustingly soothing. I felt a small rush of air as Moriarty moved behind me; he must've been leaning over Sherlock. "…do you remember what I said to you, _oh so long _ago?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately; I felt the friction of his back against mine as he heaved a small sigh. The touch of our bodies was one shred of comfort in this – as much as I feared for the both of us, to know that I was close enough to touch him made me feel that I still had something to stay positive for.

"That you wanted me to _be your fag_?" he eventually replied. I felt a painful pang in my throat when I heard it – but I'm sure Moriarty's response to it wasn't so morally-bound. He must've been taken by surprise though, because he was suddenly silent, and only spoke after a noticeable pause.

"Hmm, I did say that, didn't I?" He chuckled spitefully. "But _WRONG, _Sherlock, I wasn't talking about _that…_"

I heard the sound of rustling fabric, and my heart surged into my throat when I felt Sherlock's body jerk and tense behind me.

"Though the offer's still there, if you've changed your mind…" I felt an additional weight against my back; my blood ran cold at the thought of what Jim might be doing.

"_Get…off me…" _I'd never heard Sherlock's voice like that; an almost feral snarl, filled with hate and loathing. I felt a strange sort of vacuum behind my ribs when I thought back to the night they were both talking about; the night that Moriarty almost raped Sherlock…and the same night that I first dared to open my feelings to him…The memories were too strong, too raw, and I couldn't keep silent any longer.

"What – what are you playing at here, Jim? This is a pretty weak kind of stunt for you, isn't it?" I didn't sound as brave as I'd wanted to, but my voice didn't crack, which was reassuring. Sherlock leant his head against mine again; I opened my eyes, and realised how desperately I wanted to be able to see him.

"Ah, _Doctor Watson_! So nice of you to join us…" Jim stalked around to stand in front of me; I took him in in one withering head-to-toe glare. He was wearing his usual expensive suit, hair close-cropped, dark eyes glinting in the half-light. I've never had murderous thoughts, despite the things I've had to do for Queen and Country, but if there's one man I'd ever happily like to see brutalised in some way, _any_ way, it's him.  
"Much as I'm _desperate _for your approval, Doctor, I really don't think you're all that well informed about what I do and don't like to indulge in in my spare time." He smiled sickeningly, and somehow, I managed to hold his gaze.

"Okay – prove me wrong," I challenged him – it wasn't difficult to put the arrogance into my voice. "Why would you get involved in a murder like Salter's?"

Moriarty looked at me for several seconds; it's spooky how similar he is to Sherlock – how one look from him can feel like you're being dissected on a lab desk. He shrugged sharply and moved away; obviously wanting to see what Sherlock thought of my question.

"What about you, sexy? Do you want me to prove _the Doctor _wrong, too?"

Silence from Sherlock. Moriarty came around to my side of the room again.

"He doesn't look interested, John. I don't think he wants to know. And I've never really given a shit about _your _opinion, so - I don't think I'll tell." He made to leave the room, but I felt Sherlock tense and I knew he was reluctantly preparing to speak.

"I want to know."

"Pardon?" Moriarty added a plummy tone to his voice, immitating Sherlock's accent in a subtle, immensely irritating way.

"Tell us – tell _me – _about Salter."

I couldn't see Jim any more, but I was sure his face would've lit up completely at Sherlock's request, and could hear it in his voice.

"Oh, you've twisted my arm."

I tried to turn my head, to see where Moriarty was (and what he was doing), but I couldn't move far enough. The ropes and duct tape holding me in place felt tighter and tighter as time went by; I could feel my muscles burning with unspent adrenaline, and my mind was acutely alert, waiting for the perfect moment to attempt an escape. Most of all, I wanted to see Sherlock, _needed _to see him, and it felt like the stab of a knife that he was in danger and I was powerless to help him.

"You want to know about _Salter, _OK." He began pacing. "It's a shame: you've both been so busy, haven't you? Driving all over London, bless your hearts. You were right from the off, Sherlock: I've read the blog. Salter wasn't murdered by a lover: in fact, he was an irrelevant accessory to my higher designs. So you were wasting your time – well, that's not _entirely _true. You were wasting my chauffeur's time, letting him trail you all over the place like that. You might as well have stayed at home – probably would have avoided getting yourselves kidnapped that way." He sniggered softly. "OK, probably not. I would still have found some way to get you tied up and unconscious…"

"Get to the point," I spat, sick of the sound of his voice already. Jim carried on as if he'd never heard me.

"But fooling the _police_, that was a bit silly, wasn't it? Why did you _do _that, Sherlock?"

"The police would have made things so much less…elegant. I could tell that this was the work of a criminal with – finesse – and didn't want them to cheapen the whole thing." What was he saying? I couldn't believe that he had the willpower to flatter this potential rapist and psychotic criminal.

"Ha – I don't believe you. _LIAR!_" Moriarty laughed like a maniac. I heard footsteps shuffling from the next room; so his lackeys were close at hand. Might've known. "I think you had an _ulterior motive_, this time. And I'll tell you –"

"Tell me about Salter, first. You haven't told me why you did it." Sherlock just managed to keep the impatience from his voice.

"Ooh, Sherlock, you really know how to get what you want, don't you?" I couldn't stand the way Jim was talking to him, but I held my tongue. We were close, now, so close to the truth. "I like my men forceful…"

As Jim began pacing again, I tried out the bonds around my wrists. Firm, but not impossible. I only had a very slim chance of being able to dislocate my arm in this specific position, but I thought that if I frayed the ropes around my waist a little, I would be able to turn enough to get the right leverage. I was talking myself around to the idea in my head, convincing myself steadily that it was my only option, while I listened to Moriarty's explanation.

"Since you've called the case _The Black Hart, _I can see you've given the name of this place its proper importance..."

'_So that's where we are.' _This realisation was reassuring; at least _The Black Hart _was vaguely familiar to me. That made things a little easier – escape routes, for one. Information for the police, for another. Though I was pretty sure that if we ever escaped the place, Moriarty would be long gone before the police could get to the scene.

"Like I said, Salter is a nobody. It's not _him _I was concerned with." I heard Moriarty moving, felt that he was close, but knew from the lay of his shadow that he was much closer to Sherlock. "_You _were my motivation, Sherlock. My _muse_, if you will."

I groaned at the admission; dreading the possible explanation as to why Moriarty murdered Salter with Sherlock in mind.

"Problem, Doctor?" Jim hadn't walked around to my side of the room, but I could somehow feel his eyes burrowing into the back of my head. "'Cause I think you'll want to know why Sherlock forced me to kill a man, too."

'_No one forced you to do anything, you sick bastard.' _I managed to keep this sentiment to myself, and gritted my teeth.

"It's not Salter who has the black heart, you see. It's our mutual friend and sex object, Mr Holmes here!"

I turned viciously in my seat at this, creating several nasty friction burns where bindings rubbed skin, "_What the fuck are you talking about, you disgusting –"_

"Now, now, no need to get precious." Jim moved around a little; I could see him now in my peripheral vision. "We have a common interest in all of this, John my dear. Except you got to _fuck _it, and I didn't."

"I don't know what you're talking about…" I said weakly, my resolve breaking because Sherlock is my one greatest weakness and at that very moment he wasn't saying a word and I had no way of knowing what he was thinking.

"_DON'T LIE TO ME!_" Moriarty almost screamed; he swooped down on me like a crazed raven and seized me by the shoulders.  
"Sherlock rejected my polite advances – and that's fine! No hard feelings. I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea. But _you? _I've got _no idea _what he saw in you. You're so…_boring._" He chuckled maliciously, and let go of me, taking two steps back.  
"But well, whatever it was, I can see it on both of you - you're _pathetic. _It's like you're _dripping_ unspent testosterone. And now you're fucking _inseparable – _like Sherlock daren't even phone his buddies down at Scotland Yard and get them involved in a case because he can't _bear _to share his Doctor with anyone else…"

I closed my eyes and shook my head slowly; more to clear my thoughts than to disagree with Jim. Most of all, I was shocked that my feelings for Sherlock were so easy to read – and wondered what his body language had told Jim about the way he felt about me.

"You do know it will all end badly for you, don't you John?" The question was so softly-delivered that I barely recognised Moriarty's voice. Looking over at him, I could see that he was staring at Sherlock; so addressing _him_, gauging his reaction, rather than waiting for mine. I spoke anyway – couldn't resist, somehow.

"What? What do you mean?"

"Salter was a warning. For the Doctor, I suppose. But mostly because I like you to know how easy it is for me to read you. I _know _that you're emotionally-stunted, Sherlock: the way you carry yourself, the things you say, the precautions you take never to let down that self-serving barrier of yours. Truth be told – and I _always _tell the truth – you're heartless. Now, that's not an insult. Heartless people are much better protected than those who care; that's common knowledge. But it will _end badly, Sherlock. _You keep tugging on the Doctor's fragile little heartstrings like this, and he will wind up with a heart as bloody and tattered as Salter's. Metaphorically-speaking, of course." He flashed me a smile, and my insides churned. "Or, you know, he could just wind up dead. Most people you come into contact with _die, _don't they? Or they're already dead. Or you put them in prison, where they are as good as dead. Catch my drift?"

I found myself completely speechless, horrified by what Jim had said. I closed my eyes and silently willed Sherlock to answer; he was the only one who could rationalize this, put the whole sorry situation into combatable terms. For once, his lack of surface emotion put him at a great advantage.

"That's far too dull for you, Jim," he said softly. "You can't seriously expect me to believe that you went to such an effort and risked blowing your cover, just to prove a point about the nature of mine and John's relationship. You could have done that by text – I might've read it…"

"Droll, Sherlock. But that's _not _it." I felt Sherlock's head turn; it was the first time, as far as I could tell, that he'd actually chosen to look Jim in the eye. "I enjoyed how clueless you were – that was fun. You overestimated me, in this instance – thought I was too highbrow for a simple homicide. Even when the vital statistics of the killer were plain for _all to see, _you still didn't have a clue that I was behind it. And you look so adorable when you're _all confused…_" The last two words were delivered in a paternal coo, and I winced at the thought that Jim might try and pinch Sherlock's cheek.

"So go on then, tell me: _why _else?" Sherlock was getting impatient now – if he didn't keep himself in check, things could start to unravel.

"Have you remembered what I told you, yet?" Moriarty's voice was back to its simpering, soothing tone, and I heard and felt the chair creak as he leant himself against Sherlock; my brain cried out to _do something, _but I was totally helpless – I began to think I might die on the spot if Jim tried to rape Sherlock again and I had to sit and listen to it.  
"I _told you, _Sherlock, that someday I would _burn the heart out of you…" _The memory of him saying these words the first time around attacked me suddenly; as well as the ice-cold disgust of remembering the scene at the swimming pool – the end of _The Great Game. _I couldn't bear the thought of that night; my chest constricted, and I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. "Now I know that you might just possibly_ actually have one – _well, that _John _has it – and you know, hearts are so much easier to _MUTILATE _when they're vulnerable…"

"Jim! _Jim stop this now!_" My voice had an exasperating tremor, but I couldn't bear to hear any more. I couldn't even begin contemplate the horrendous pain of Moriarty's threats.

"Poor, poor Henry Salter," Moriarty purred; I heard the chair creak again and was stricken with morbid curiosity at what was happening behind me. "Imagine what would happen if I stabbed your John and blackened his heart the way I did Henry's. Well, at least we'd be alone…"

And then I heard the sound that could only have been Moriarty kissing Sherlock. It's a sound I never want to hear again; one that I've not quite managed to blank from my memory and one that attacks me at moments when I think I'm totally safe, totally secure – it's completely demoralising. Even as it happened, I knew I would be haunted by it, and so my instincts took complete control and my lips made sounds without me even being conscious of them.

"You know what? You're fucking welcome to him. He'll probably enjoy it…"

Sherlock moved noticeably; I felt his head brush against mine, in the same, warning way he did earlier. I knew he was trying to stop me speaking: concerned that I might do something rash, probably. But something told me that I was the only one who could get us out of this situation – no idea why. It was a hunch, one that felt totally _right, _somehow, so I went along with it.  
It worked, anyway – to begin with. Jim moved away from Sherlock slightly; I felt it.

"Excuse me?" he asked, unable to mask his curiosity. Maybe it's because my voice sounded so _calm, _so steady. It was the voice I used for military negotiations, and it's never let me down.

"He gets off on it, Sherlock does: when it feels like it's not consensual. That's why he does it with me. It only encourages him that I'm not into it, that I fight him…He'll love it if you force him."

"Is he serious?" Jim laughed, addressing Sherlock. I didn't give him chance to answer.

"He never forgave me for stopping you, that night. Said if I'd have let you go all the way, he might not have forced me into sex at all…"

I heard the chair creak and managed to resist the urge to release my pent-up anger in an irrational way as I realised that Jim had gotten off Sherlock. I still had a slight advantage: the fact that Jim was on Sherlock's side of the room meant he couldn't read my true feelings in my expression or my posture. I could fool him with my voice – for a while, anyway. I just hoped that Sherlock would play along – he _had _to, if we were going to get out of this. I felt him shift, knew that Moriarty was staring at him intently, without having to see, and I hoped he would be able to keep up the pretence.

"He's right," Sherlock sighed, and there was something deep and dangerous in his voice that made me shudder; _so believable. _It was as if he'd dropped a mask that he'd been wearing and was revealing his true self, rather than the other way around.

"_Christ,_" Moriarty breathed.

"I manipulated John into sex; I was bored, needed something to do. You'd be surprised at the uses I've managed to put him to." I could hear the smug smile in Sherlock's voice, and it chilled me more than it should have.

"I can't see it. Sorry, but you're just too _magnolia _for that sort of stuff. Anyone can tell from a mile off that you aren't, and never have been, a freaky sex pest. This is all just a ruse to distract –"

"Ah, Jim, you're such an _idiot, _at times. What do you think compelled you to want to fuck me in the first place? I love to let people think it's free will; makes it easier for me to _get what I want._"

Wow, what a genius. Now he was letting Moriarty believe that his sick perversion was Sherlock's idea all along. It was a twist I could never have thought of. And it was such a ridiculous idea that it _just had to work._

"That doesn't sound right at all." There was a tone of self-doubt in Jim's voice that gave me confidence.

"Depends why you decided to rape me." Sherlock's comeback was so rapid that I only just registered it.

Jim was silent for quite a while; I knew he was casting his mind back. In my opinion, he wanted to rape Sherlock because we managed to outwit him during _The Great Game, _and he couldn't stand the humiliation of failure. He wanted to prove his power over Sherlock in a way that would expose Sherlock's greatest weakness: his emotional immaturity. And somehow, he had witnessed the new closeness between the two of us and knew that he could use our vulnerability to his advantage. Would we have become so involved in a case like _The Black Hart – _a man, who shared so many of Sherlock's physical characteristics, and even shared his initials (in reverse), stabbed in his _heart, _maybe or maybe not by a rejected lover – if we hadn't shared the intimacy that we have? I suppose we'll never know.  
Whatever his motivation, Jim didn't answer Sherlock directly - instead, he moved between us; I could see his blurry outline from the corner of my eye.

"You know me, Sherlock – I'm the _curious _type. I think I need more proof before I'll believe these spurious claims you're making.  
I think perhaps you need to _show me._"

"Fine – I can seduce you just as easily as I did John," Sherlock continued to boast.

"No. Not me. I'm too into it; it won't prove a thing." Jim chuckled ominously. "Show me how you force John. I want to see it with my own eyes." His voice was almost trembling with excitement; I felt sick to my stomach, but realising that he would have to untie us to make his fantasy a reality gave me the strength to power through it.

As soon the tape around my wrists was cut, I moved sharply, ready to free myself as quickly as possible and tackle Moriarty, so that Sherlock could make his escape (what I would do after that wasn't really a priority). But as soon as I turned my upper body in Jim's direction, I saw the gun in his hand. It stopped me in my tracks. Jim clucked his tongue and shook his head, before he sliced open the bonds around my waist and ankles, making a beckoning motion with the gun which seemed to give me permission to stand. I did so carefully, not trusting my muscles, but besides a dull ache all over, my body seemed strong enough to support me just as well as it normally did. The amount of time we'd spent chatting must've given time for the after-effects of the chloroform to all but wear off.  
I spun round on the spot, needing to see Sherlock, to check if he was alright. As I turned, I was slightly surprised to see that he hadn't moved from his chair, even though his bonds had already been cut. He was slumped forward slightly, with his forearms rested on his knees – the way he always sat when he was in deep contemplation. I shifted from one foot to the other slightly, keeping my muscles awake, and avoided Jim's eye (knowing that he would be staring at Sherlock, anyway). I felt like tense elastic in anticipation of what Sherlock would do.

Eventually, he stood – stretching his arms in front of him like a cat after its nap. He turned slowly, and I was struck by the full sight of him. Someone (no guesses who) had been playing with his shirt: it was undone by a few buttons, and hung slightly from one of his shoulders. His hair had been brushed from his face and stuck out from the top of his head at an odd angle, like he'd been sleeping under the duvet. And his skin seemed so pale in the dim light that it almost had a purple tinge to it. To see this and keep my expression passive was one of the most difficult lies I've ever had to pull off. But I managed it. Mainly because of the look on Sherlock's face: his eyes were so cold and stony, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyebrows knitted together – the hardness behind his look was so intense that I seemed to feel it passing into me, and I felt stronger. Any sentimental thoughts were immediately pushed from my mind – I knew they could wait. For now, all that mattered was _the game_. And winning it.

Somehow, I wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock's hands on me at that moment, and the chance to be close to him. The worst thought for me then was that no matter what Sherlock did to me next, I had to pretend that it was the most disgusting thing I'd ever experienced.  
And Jim Moriarty would be watching.  
_That _thought made my blood run cold. I felt the urge to vomit – and didn't suppress it. Might help my acting skills later on.  
I didn't let myself be distracted by how bizarre this was going to be. I just had to reassure myself that we couldn't possibly lose. Losing is never an option. The issue, this time, was _how _we were going to win.

Jim had the gun raised in front of him, moving it slowly between the two of us, like a cobra about to strike – just to remind us that any false moves wouldn't go down well. But he stayed silent: I assumed he didn't want to disturb Sherlock 'in action', knowing that a man like him would have already planned his strategy from beginning to end, no doubt, and it was only a matter of seeing it through – no encouragement needed.  
Though he _did_ request a commentary.

"Talk me through it, Sherlock: I want to see that brilliant brain of yours _tick._"

Sherlock flashed him a hard look, which could've been taken as annoyance at the interruption – but I could see the sincerity in his expression and it helped me prepare myself for what was to come.  
He came around the back-to-back chairs slowly, taking me in fully with dilated pupils. I shifted a little, my pulse reacting to his intense expression in spite of my anxiety. He drew up in front of me; I was suddenly very aware of his height, elegant and intimidating all at once, and before I could accustom myself to the closeness or prepare myself for his touch, he moved his head barely to look at Jim.

"OK, so first, I tell John something that I know will garner sympathy: 'I'm having difficulty locating a suspect', or 'I'm in trouble with Scotland Yard for leading a witness', or 'I've exhausted all my leads and I'm at my wit's end'…" He looked back to me, a smug smirk on his face, and I steeled myself to play along. "John, of course, can't help himself but become emotionally-invested in any case we undertake, and, by extension, feels in some way obliged to assist me in any way he can – particularly on the rare occasion that I appeal to him directly."

It was strange – Sherlock was constructing a lie, but so much of what he said was based on truth that it really was seamless, even, at times, to me. It helped, that he was as sincere as he could be – helped me adopt the lie just as easily.  
Sherlock continued, "I observe the usual conversational etiquette: _'What's wrong Sherlock?'_" At this point, he started imitating my voice and mannerisms in a way that was totally shocking. It made me feel strangely flattered, to think that he'd memorised my habits so carefully. "'Oh, this and that, blah blah, problems problems…', _'But Sherlock, what are you going to do?'_" He sighed dramatically, "'Oh, I don't know John, it's all so impossible! But I can think of a way that you might be able to invoke my creative thought processes...'"

Somewhere, in the corner of my senses that wasn't totally immersed in Sherlock, I heard Jim chuckling lasciviously.  
Sherlock brought his hand up towards me now, traced a tapered finger down from the 'v' in my shirt collar, to the waistband of my jeans. I jerked my head away sharply, away from Jim. He might've thought I was disgusted by Sherlock's actions; mainly, it was to hide the need and reluctant pleasure in my expression.

"See? The first touch. He hates it – bless him. Knows what's coming and knows that I won't let him leave until I'm fully satisfied. But he does try to fight me, don't you John?" I brought my eyes waveringly to look at him and he bit his lower lip slowly and deliberately.

"Sherlock…_don't make me do this…_" I whispered. It wasn't difficult to find the fear in my voice; I hated that we had no choice but to put on a show for Moriarty and that I had no idea just how far we would have to go until he was satisfied. The gun in his hand was a constant shadow in my mind; I've never felt so powerless without my own.

"Don't worry," Sherlock soothed: it was strange, how I almost believed him, "I'll try to be gentle, this time…" His hands moved to my shirt buttons, and I pushed him away sharply. He blinked rapidly, caught a little off-balance, but soon came towards me again, a new steeliness in his eyes.  
He seized my arms roughly, and started speaking to Jim again, "You see: at this point, no matter how politely I attempt to negotiate, John seems to maintain his stubborn exterior. However, it soon comes to a point where he realises he can't possibly refuse me: that I won't relent once I've set my mind to something." He grabbed my jaw with one hand and forced me to look him in the eye, "More to the point, I'm sure he's pretty apprehensive as to _what I might do_ if he puts up too much of a fight…"  
I tried to pull away, making a sort of appalled whimper.  
"So I say: 'John, I just want to taste your mouth. Will you deny me that? When I've done so much for _you_?'" He looked at me, expectantly, waiting for me to respond. God, the thought of kissing him still made my body weak – the surrounding situation seemed to melt into nothing.

"Sherlock – I – can't…_please…_" I felt the hotness of my tears before I realised what they were.

Jim was breathing heavily from his corner of the room; the gun was as steady as ever, but I could tell he was as distracted by the anticipation as I was.  
"_Make him…" _the whisper was so reptilian. I glanced at him briefly; his dark pupils were tightly constricted, and he had an inane, almost feverish grin on his face.

"It's not difficult to coerce John into a kiss…" Sherlock was sounding slightly distracted, now – I couldn't decide whether it was because his mind was running on ahead of the present, or because the thought of kissing me stirred up emotions that he'd rather not address. "He hates it, loathes the idea of kissing a man – homophobic paranoia stemming from a career involving prolonged periods of time spent solely in the company of his own gender. But his time in the military has also taught him that there are few things worse than the imminent pain and prolonged physical damage of a broken bone."

I'd not forgotten that he was lying, but it was no less shocking that Sherlock could use my background against me like that. It wasn't difficult for me to resent it; I glared at him, turning up my chin in mock-defiance, while he grabbed one of my arms and twisted it tightly against my back, only just pushing the threshold of pain. This move brought our chests together, and I could feel his warm breath against my face. My eyelids closed and the tears that had been clouding my vision spilled onto my cheeks. Normally crying is a sign of weakness to me, but here it was the only right and logical thing to do – it relieved the tension, and made my act so much more believable.  
Sherlock tutted softly and brought his free hand to my lips, pressing his fingertips there as if he wanted to stifle my silent sobs. Then he crashed his mouth against mine roughly, adapting his body to my violent attempts to free myself so that each of my struggles was absorbed by some part of him. I moaned harshly against his lips; a sound that seemed to be fear and disgust at the action but which was actually a release of my need for him, of my suppressed concern and fear for the both of us. Sherlock clutched my hair and drew back my head, lowering his mouth so that he could suck fiercely at my neck. I bit down on my lower lip, a familiar dull fiery feeling building inside me, but the sick pretence of the situation made me desperate to break the clinch.  
"Sherlock, don't…_DON'T!_" I was starting to feel seriously disturbed by all of this; Sherlock's actions were almost devastatingly sexy but I couldn't let them go on any longer without risking dropping the act. He'd made the move to put his hand between my legs, and I knew, _just knew _that I would moan and then everything I'd lied about to Jim would become inescapably clear.  
He broke away carefully, a little too carefully. His eyes were heavy with shadow when he looked at me, his breathing was shallow and his lips were dark with the rush of blood to them.  
I held his gaze for as long as I dared, before making another mock effort to free myself from his grip. He held me close, his face so near to me that our noses were almost touching. When he spoke, it sounded like a voice from the other side of the world. And I hardly realised he wasn't talking to me, but to Moriarty.

"And then I say…_bad move, Jim._"

Before the words had time to register – with me or Jim – Sherlock had whirled around, something metal glinting between his fingers. He hurled the flick-knife at Jim at a lightning pace; the blade didn't make contact but the handle struck broadside against the butt of his gun, knocking it from his hand and sending it skimming like a stone across the floorboards.  
This was all the cue I needed. The layout of the room flashed into my mind like a sketch drawing as I hurtled forward, knocking Moriarty to the ground. As I grabbed his upper arms, flipped him over like a dead animal and pinned his arms against his back, I remembered what I'd seen when I first been able to stand up: we were in _The_ _Black Hart. _In the back room. The room behind the bar, which had a wooden trapdoor in the floor leading to…_the cellar.  
_As I lifted Jim's body from the floor with a specific intention in mind, I could vaguely feel him struggling against my grip. One swift punch to his left temple stopped him struggling.  
For a small guy, Jim was pretty hard to lift. I suppose my adrenaline was running pretty low, or that the pain from the kick he'd given me – which later turned out to be two bruised ribs – was beginning to sink in. Either way, it took me a little longer than I would've wanted to rip open the cellar doors and throw him down the stairs.

Sherlock helped me replace the iron bar across the trapdoor. It was a while before my blood stopped pounding and my vision faded from livid red, and I could turn to look at him and _really see him. _When I could, I did. He was panting, exhausted, drained. And – God, I'm ashamed of myself sometimes – he still looked so _stunning_ that I could've stared at him for hours.

We'd ripped off the wooden planks across the window, smashed through the glass with the butt of Jim's gun and climbed out into the stone yard behind the club before Jim's lackeys had even opened the door. Their baffled shouts followed us faintly, but we were over the wall, down the alley and back onto the road, sprinting as fast as our legs would carry us, laughing like maniacs as loudly as we dared.  
We took random, sharp turns in different directions, hurtling through tiny alleyways and climbing up metal fire escapes, across people's balconies and, at one point, through a multi-storey car park – all at Sherlock's instruction. I couldn't even comprehend the detail of the map of London that must've been running through his head as he planned our route.  
When we were far enough away, and had taken enough diversions to be sure that no one could have followed us, Sherlock hailed a taxi. I've never been so glad to see the back of a Cockney's head in my life.

We both passed the journey back to the flat in silence – I couldn't seem to tear myself away from the rain-streaked view out of the window. I could hear Sherlock's heavy breathing beside me for quite a long time, and I knew he would be virtually dead to the world, running over the facts of the case in his head, combing over every tiny detail so that he was sure he couldn't have done anything better.  
Even though the worst of the ordeal was over, I still couldn't unwind. We'd gotten away, that should've been enough – but Moriarty hadn't been punished enough for what he did to us. Sherlock would tell the police that he was behind Salter's murder, but they'd have no chance of catching him. It's obvious to anyone that Moriarty's only worthy opponent is Sherlock himself, and their battle will only end when one of them is dead. It's a fact of life: like natural disasters. But I don't like to dwell on that for long.  
He was still at large – still _is – _and there's nothing we can do about it. It's something that won't ever stop haunting us. I'm sure that Sherlock is always vaguely aware that he's out there, and that he could strike again at any time. I just wish there was something I could do to change that. But I wouldn't even know where to start.

Apart from the things I _couldn't _change – there was the state of affairs back at the flat. No doubt Mrs Hudson would still be tied to that chair in the kitchen, getting more and more distraught as me and Sherlock were gone for longer and longer. Would the police have checked the flat, when Sherlock didn't answer the phone to Lestrade at the time they'd agreed? Only if Lestrade had tried the mobile, too. I hadn't heard it ring, but I wanted to be sure…

"Do you have your –?"

"No. Whoever kidnapped us picked my pockets first – yours too, if you check." I did. He was right. "Either they took the phone, or it's back at the flat. They probably stamped on it…I'll have to get a new one. At least they didn't find the knife."

We still weren't looking at each other. Both of our voices sounded distant, muffled, like we were talking through cotton wool.

"How _did _you –?"

"Trick lining. Up the sleeve. Bespoke suits – come with all kinds of specifications. We should get you one."

"Hmm. Suits aren't really my…thing." I turned to look at him now. His head was laid against the neck rest of the back seat, his face turned up to the roof of the car, his eyes closed. He must've sensed me looking, because one eye opened lazily and slid to me.

"Do you think the police will be –?"

"If they are, let me do the talking. I have an idea of where Moriarty may go next. There's a criminal safe house not too far from _The Black Hart _– I'm not supposed to know about it, but I sent in a friend of mine undercover a while back and he gave me some pretty interesting insights. If they can intercept in time, chances are they might be able to arrest some of his colleagues. _He'll _be long gone, of course – but that's only to be expected…"

"If we hadn't had to run…I – I could've…"

"There's no use, John. You don't want his blood on your hands – and we both know there's only one way to stop him for good…"

I nodded grimly. "I just – I'm _so…_"

"You did well." I felt his hand on my thigh, and my throat closed. Before I could say anything, the cab pulled up, and Sherlock leapt out.

I paid the cabbie, and shuffled with weak legs to the front door, which Sherlock had left open. Sure enough, there were three police cars parked outside, lights blaring.  
I hardly dared walk through my own front door – how mental is that? But I'd seen and done enough and the sight of our front room crawling with coppers was something I really wasn't ready to face. As I stumbled wearily up the stairs, I could hear Sherlock's voice inside – he was talking in a low, subdued voice, not the usual animated way he speaks when he's solved a case. The gruff voice that replied was definitely Lestrade's – and then I heard a weak, trembling female voice that could only have been Mrs Hudson and my stomach dropped a little. She was talking – that was a good sign. But I felt sick with guilt that she'd been drawn in to it all.  
Five police officers bundled past me at the top of the stairs; their walkies were full of the voices of other officers who were arranging to meet them at their destination. Moriarty's search party, then. _'Good luck, lads,' _I thought, bitterly.  
I pushed open the door to 221b all the way, and it gave a small creak as I rounded the corner which made all four people at the kitchen table turn to look at me. Sherlock was leaning on the table top, mid-gesture; Lestrade was standing behind him, arms folded across his chest; and Mrs Hudson was sitting in the same chair, freed from her restraints, with young woman sitting beside her who I presumed to be one of her daughters. Both women were nursing mugs of tea, and Mrs Hudson had been shrouded in one of those shock blankets that Sherlock seems to take such offense to. I shrugged my mouth weakly, incapable of making a meaningful gesture. Mrs H smiled gently at me, while Lestrade and Sherlock quickly resumed their conversation.

"Look, Sherlock, I understand: you've both been through a bloody bad ordeal. I just _wish _you could've gotten in touch with us sooner. You do realise we've got virtually no chance of catching Moriarty now, don't you?" It was a rhetorical question, so Sherlock stayed silent. Lestrade sighed deeply, and carried on, "Let me get the facts straight, then: he killed Salter, not for any grander purpose than to teach you and John a lesson? What was it?"

"He wanted John to realise that I am completely heartless: that my lack of arguably 'normal' human emotions will inevitably lead to his destruction and that should our work as a duo continue he will ensure that – what was it, John? – oh, that either or both of our hearts will be 'mutilated', just like Salter's."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows; I didn't blame him for being speechless. There's not really much that you can say to a statement like that. Except I _could _think of something to say: that Sherlock was being economical with the truth to the point of blatantly _lying. _I understood why he did it, though – we're vulnerable now. The less people know about how close we _really _are, the better. And Lestrade wouldn't understand anyway.  
Lestrade looked at me, or at least, tried to. I must've looked terrible – his eyes kept darting away. "We can put the flat under surveillance, if you like. For _your_ good, John." He looked back at Sherlock, knowing that he would rather die (almost literally, in this case) than agree to any kind of police interference. "You know, just for a couple of weeks, till we're sure that he isn't –"

"He _won't._" Sherlock interrupted, his voice firm. "John isn't in any kind of danger. Well – no more so than usual." He risked a brief smile, and I was grateful for it. I stepped forward, almost going to touch him then thinking better of it.

"Well, it's up to you." Lestrade gathered up his coat and made for the door. "Glad you lads are safe," he mumbled - the most empathy I think we've ever had from Lestrade. Both of us raised our eyebrows, and he frowned slightly. "Just – do me a favour. Next time – and I pray _God _there isn't a next time – don't be so bloody _independent _about the whole thing, will you? I don't know how I'm going to explain to the 'Super why our lot have been cavorting around sodding _strip clubs_ when the killer was one of our 'most wanted' all along…" He nodded goodbye to Mrs Hudson and her daughter and was out of the door before any of us could reply. "I'll call you tomorrow!" he shouted before slamming the door downstairs.

When he was gone, I turned my attention to Mrs H. She turned her face up to me warmly, no trace of the resentment which she had every right to feel. What a wonderful woman. I placed my hand carefully on her shoulder and she rubbed her face wearily.

"You'll have to excuse me, John love. I'd give you boys a great big hug but I'm absolutely worn out."

Her daughter spoke up – her voice was just as warm as her mum's; I wondered how they could be so understanding, but maybe there was something in mine and Sherlock's demeanour that told them just what we'd been through, "Paramedics told her to be in bed ages ago, but she refused to go until you two were back safely. We'll go now, though – let you have a bit of peace."

"It's alright –" I mumbled, not wanting to be rude. Truth was I couldn't wait until me and Sherlock were alone.

"They didn't hurt you?" Sherlock's voice was so grave that it shocked me. My chest tightened when I realised just how sorry he felt that Mrs H had been dragged into this.

"No, no love. I'm fine. Bit shaken up, couple of burns from the rope, but they didn't touch a hair on me. They didn't even ask me anything about the two of you; I was surprised. But then, I suppose, if you've met this Moriarty chap before then –"

"I'm sorry that you had to experience that. It really wasn't…" Sherlock was examining the table top as he spoke; I've never seen him like that before. It made me more aware than ever just how much of a mother figure Mrs H is to him.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. It wasn't your fault. If I wasn't such a busybody, I never would've answered the door…" Mrs H smiled sweetly and then put her arm around her daughter's shoulders, letting her lead her carefully out of the room. "Night boys. Just give me a buzz if you need anything," I turned to say that it would be _us _helping _her _if anything, but they were gone.

The flat was suddenly very, _very _empty. It was the first time I'd had a chance to look around at everything. The living room was in pretty much its usual state, except the contents of mine and Sherlock's pockets were strewn about across the floor. Surprisingly, they hadn't broken his phone: it was lying on the coffee table, almost as if he'd put it there himself.  
I turned to tell Sherlock this, and our eyes met, stopping all speech.  
I soaked him up with my eyes – seeing him and knowing that we were alone, that we were safe, that, in some ways at least, we'd won the game.  
It was a bitter victory.  
I moved closer to Sherlock, and he moved closer to me. We stood either side of the partition, as if neither of us dared enter the room that the other was in. How stupid, after what we'd been through. Eventually, my paralyzed lungs started to work again, so that I could speak.

"Sherlock…"

"I…"

We both tried to speak at once, which of course ruined what either of us was going to say. I sighed, giving Sherlock a weak smile. He returned it, thankfully.

"I was _so_…" I started again, but the words just wouldn't come. I started to reach for him, as if that would help, but I couldn't do that either. It was like I was in a wrestling match with myself – and I was too tired to make any serious moves.

"I know." He nodded solemnly, his stance uncomfortable. Somehow his awkwardness reassured me that he was feeling the same as I was.  
"Worse than the army?" he asked suddenly. I was taken off-balance, which made me forget to be nervous. I thought about my answer, though – it was a tough one.

"About the same…" I decided. "My sense of duty and loyalty…and…fear…for you was probably as strong as it was for all my comrades put together in Afghanistan." To admit this to him was slightly terrifying for me. I couldn't believe that I'd said it, and that it was true. And yet I hadn't hesitated to say it, which must've meant that it came from the heart.

Sherlock came a little closer; I could see the rips in his shirt and they stirred up my adrenaline slightly. Knowing that Moriarty had touched him…it still seared like a brand.

"Do you really believe what you said?"

"…What? What did I say?" My mind was still struggling to keep focused.

"Do you really think that I forced you?"

My muscles might as well have turned to stone. After everything we'd done, everything we'd said to each other, everything we'd shared – Sherlock was still that insecure?  
It was a shock at first, but I soon came to realise: every step we take together since we first kissed is brand new territory to him. For probably the first time in his adult life, he has no idea if what he's doing is right, no point of reference to draw from, and nothing he's spent his life cramming into that amazing brain of his has any relevance. He knows he can trust me completely, but I'm just as uncertain as he is. We're both totally inexperienced – but I guess that's what makes it so exciting.  
I basically gawped at Sherlock for about five seconds, at a loss for what to say without risking insulting him. So he gave me an exasperated look and spoke again.

"Because every lie that is believable _must_ be constructed from at least a thread of essential truth. So I'll ask again: do you think I forced you? John?"

For some reason, I started laughing. Probably delirious exhaustion. Or maybe just because the idea seemed so ridiculous to me. Sherlock looked totally crestfallen at my reaction, which only made me laugh even more.  
Eventually, when he started glowering at me and looking as if he might storm out of the room, I answered, the traces of laughter still in my voice.

"No, Sherlock, I don't think you forced me. If you had – do you honestly think we'd still be living together? That I'd even be _talking _to you?"

He adapted an expression which was so scarily similar to Mrs Hudson's 'headmistress' look that I started laughing uncontrollably all over again.

"John, you're being ludicrous now. It was only a question." His mouth started quirking into a smile – probably against all his best efforts.

I managed to pull myself together, wiping my eyes and massaging my bruised ribs, and came up closer to him so that we were touching distance apart. Finally the tension had been broken, and I felt comfortable enough to say what I'd be longing to say for hours.

"You're wonderful." His smile faded a little, but his eyes seemed warmer. "I don't know what I'd have done if –"

"Simple statistics, John. With your military training, and my astonishing intellect, there was a very small margin for failure. I'd say, percentage-wise, around –"

"I'm not talking about that – don't interrupt," I scolded mildly, reaching out and threading my arm around his waist. The thought of almost dying is something I've had to deal with for most of my working life – but what I really meant was that I couldn't have lived with myself if Moriarty had succeeded in his plan to rape Sherlock. I didn't want him to think that I took it lightly.

"You interrupted me too," Sherlock observed, in a mild tone of voice. I scowled at him, and he shifted his long arms to grip gently at my hip bones. "Alright, alright. I understand. I'm not undervaluing the sentiment. It's – _good _that you were with me, John Watson."

"Y'know, for a super genius, your choice in adjectives is pretty poor." I pulled myself in closer, pressing my chest into his.

"I could consult my thesaurus, if you'd prefer an alternative." His hand brushed my neck, and I felt a low growl in the back of my throat.

"No – _no. _Stay out of your head for once. 'Good' is fine. 'Good' is…perfect."

I stopped him from trying to talk. It really wasn't the time for one of his monologues. Though truth be told, his heart didn't really seem to be in it.  
It was the overwhelming relief that poured out of me and into Sherlock, I think. Whatever it was, I had to share it - with him, and only him. I was flush up against him, as close as I could get, and my hands, my mouth, were fiercely occupied, taking total possession of his body in a way that was almost desperate. I was tearing at the fabric of Sherlock's already ruined shirt, dragging him roughly against me, and my lips were curled eagerly around his, the moisture of our passionate kisses creating a humid union between us. I knew Sherlock was struggling with this intensity, but the reactions from his body were outweighing those of his intellect. He was hard for me in minutes; I felt the pressure against my thigh and rubbed myself intently against it, making Sherlock pant heavily.

"_You _are wonderful," he growled suddenly, making me chuckle into his neck. "And stupid. And…courageous. And exciting. And marvellous. And…hmm." He tilted his head slightly, and I looked up at him, quirking one eyebrow. "And – a _little _disconcerting."

"Bedroom?"

"Certainly. After you."

I don't think we've ever been so needy for each other before. We were like prisoners on Death Row who've been given a day's reprieve; rutting frantically as if the sun was never going to rise again. The hard planes of Sherlock's body reassured me as much as seeing our flat untouched – knowing that I was the only person who could touch him like that – who had ever touched him like that; and I don't plan to let anyone close to trying any time soon. His hands: those dextrous, artistic hands, moved over me and sent deep, sharp shudders of pleasure through me, reminding me that I was another case to him – something to be analysed, explored, solved – except not only did he want to solve me, he wanted to excite me and surprise me and make me happy to be with him. I'm definitely his _favourite _case.  
We didn't untangle our hot, sticky limbs from each other until very late into the next morning – and I think neither of us really wanted to do anything for a long time except just _be _together.

When Sherlock made me come that night, loudly and harshly and so deeply that I almost forgot how to breathe, I felt some very unfamiliar words on the edge of my tongue – words that I've never said, that I never thought I'd say. And now I can't get them out of my head – and every time I look at him, these same scary thoughts occur to me and I find it very hard to keep my head.

It sort of feels like being in love. But it isn't. Can't be.

I'm not in love.

…I'm not.

Will write soon,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


End file.
